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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847762">love looks better in colour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/soislibre/pseuds/soislibre'>soislibre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, did i write 20k words about 2 minor characters (but major in my heart), imagine being that much of a genuine SUCK, jean is moronsexual tbh, jeremy is a himbo, riko sucks so bad oml, yes and youre gonna read them you coward</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:41:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>50,713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847762</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/soislibre/pseuds/soislibre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Colours, like features, follow the changes of the emotions."</p><p>Jeremy Knox is twelve years old when his soulmark appears. Nothing after that is easy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alvarez/Laila Dermott, Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>147</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>342</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i'm dying to feel again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblinked/gifts">moonblinked</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>it's a monstrosity and all i can do is apologise. i won't apologise though. the one who should apologise is moonblinked, for giving me this entire au. you did this babie.</p><p>this fic has also been titled:<br/>1. gene moraney<br/>2. bold of u to assume i know french<br/>3. je dont give a fuck<br/>4. love at first idiocy</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title comes from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rl3ELiPXFRo"> this song</a></p><p>french translations are at the bottom hens don't you worry<br/>also i'm english so whatever the opposite of britpicking is, i did not do it, because i am a bitch x :-)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jeremy is twelve when it happens.</p><p>It spreads like water spilled across a table. His arm aches all day, and he wonders at multiple points about the chances that he’s having a heart attack (his sisters don’t stop mentioning that for a week afterwards) but he wakes up the next morning not dead and with a splash of something that, as he watches it, fades into a bright, spring green, stretching from wrist to shoulder, that makes him smile instinctively.</p><p>His soulmate is happy.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s not unusual to get a mark so early. Nor is it entirely normal, but that doesn’t bother Jeremy. In small-town America, it probably should do. Nothing good came from being different, he thinks, but when Jeremy shows his mom the splash of colour sprawling up from his wrist to his shoulder, the back of his dad’s neck lights up in a swipe of blinding yellow and she makes him pancakes for breakfast, so… maybe it ain’t so bad to be this kind of different. The pancakes are really good, and his mom strokes his hair, and she’s so infectiously happy that Jeremy is too. </p><p>When he shows his friends, the reaction is different. Some of them are spooked by it; they’re still kids, they say, it’s super early, how old is Jeremy’s soulmate? Some of them are fascinated, and Jeremy becomes the talk of the cafeteria for approximately five minutes, until Charlie Green drops his lunch tray and the conversation moves on.</p><p>No one really knows how it works. There’s no real set time for it. One day it’s not there, the next day it is, and the best anyone can really figure (past <em> it’s just fate</em>) is it shows up when it’s needed. But the <em> it’s just fate </em>argument really does win out on this. People don’t understand the soulmate thing, that’s why they call it soulmate. It conjures up images of the universe working, the wheels of destiny turning, conspiring to bring people together at just the right moment and in just the right way. Not that it’s common to find one’s soulmate, not at all. The world is vast, it sprawls out in every direction, and among seven billion people, to find your One? It’s a needle in a haystack kind of situation. It’s more than rare, it’s practically impossible. The odds are astronomical.</p><p>Jeremy’s parents managed it, though. Somehow. He thinks that’s probably what makes him such a fierce defender of his mark. The slightest insinuation that it’ll come to nothing, that he’ll spend his teenage years, his twenties, thirties (the best years of your life) searching for that person whom he’ll never find, and Jeremy is ready to fight. He’s small and scrappy and propped up by the conviction that he will find his soulmate and prove people wrong. It serves him well, even if his counter to every argument is essentially <em> what if it does happen? </em> What if it does, right? What if, one day, the person the universe has decided is the perfect fit for him shows up right on his doorstep? It’s not unthinkable, it’s not something that’s never, ever happened before, and just because it’s something that has been largely relegated to 80s movies and pulp fiction, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still happen. He should be wary about getting his hopes up too much, shouldn’t he, but he isn’t, because Jeremy Knox is by nature an optimist and nothing about this situation is bad.</p><p>Nothing is bad, and then it is.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jeremy is twelve and a half. It’s about five in the morning when he wakes up. He doesn’t know why he wakes. Nothing wakes him. But he’s there, wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling and hating the fact that he’s up so early during summer break. It’s not fair, he thinks despondently as he leans over to pick up the glass of water on his nightstand. And then drops it. Water spills across the floor just as colour had spilled over his arm not six months earlier. The colour is still there, but it’s not the same; he calls for his mom before he registers he’s doing it. The telltale burn in his eyes gives him a second’s warning before the hot tears roll down his cheeks, but he can’t stop staring at his arm even as his vision blurs and wavers. The combination of indigos and reds and deep khakis is awful, muddy, purpling like bruises where the colours meet and swirl together. He stares and stares, and he can’t put it together, not when the day before he’d woken up yet again with green and blue blending into a minty kind of colour that had left him walking on air all day. Now it’s some kind of horrible storm cloud, it’s injury, it’s negativity Jeremy has never felt before and doesn’t recognise, but he knows it’s bad.</p><p>His mother bursts into his room, and she takes one second to make sure he’s not in danger, then fully recognises his state.</p><p>“I think they’re dying.”</p><p>“Oh, honey.” Her gentle tone does nothing to soothe him, and she settles lightly onto the bed next to him, swipes her thumbs under his eyes, reaches out to take his hand and coax his arm away from his chest where, without noticing, he’s tucked it inwards as if to stop his soulmate from hurting. Her sharp intake of breath says much more than her next words do.</p><p>“Cariño, no, if they die the colours fade. It’s alright, it’s going to be okay.”</p><p>Jeremy sobs, leaning over to sag against his mom - he’s almost 13, and he’s just starting to grow out of this, but when you need your mom you need your mom, you know? and Jeremy won’t ever be ashamed of that - and cradles his arm again. “But what happened?” he asks through hitched breaths and snot and raw, wet eyes, and his mother doesn’t answer.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Chéri, faut nous faire confiance, s’il te plaît.”</p><p>Jean’s mother is crying.</p><p>“Ils veilleront bien sur toi. Je te promets.”</p><p>The betrayal is unfathomable. It crawls up Jean’s throat, it wraps itself tightly around him, binds him until he can’t speak or even breathe as he steps onto an airplane - the first airplane he’s been on! - with two strangers and a boy he doesn’t know and leaves his family behind for reasons he doesn’t fully understand.</p><p>His wrist is bright red, like a warning light. It tells him someone else is afraid.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jeremy spends the next day in a state of near catatonia. Even his sisters know to leave him alone. He lies in bed and he stares at his arm and he watches the awful, muddy colours of betrayal and sadness. His mom brings him soup. He doesn’t eat it.<br/>
“You have to eat,” she murmurs, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. Jeremy doesn’t reply. </p><p>She sighs and leaves him alone.</p><p>The shifting play of colour over Jeremy’s skin doesn’t lighten up the next day, nor the day after that. He doesn’t really understand what’s going on, because he’s not quite 13 and that kind of agony is far away from his own experience of the world. He’s never seen a soulmark like his. It’s big, so big, and so dark. The colour, he knows, isn’t specific to his own mark, but it’s pretty fucking specific in his town. No one he knows sees those colours so regularly. No one he knows sees the blacks that set his teeth on edge. The yellows, so bright they’re almost neon, an unsettling not-colour that makes him anxious for reasons he doesn’t fully know yet. The white, the deep red, the horribly bright red. It spooks him every time he sees it. He doesn’t know what they mean - it’s only been a few months, he doesn’t recognise every awful thing his soulmate feels, but he <em> knows </em> that it’s awful. He knows that whatever is happening, it’s bad. What’s almost worse than that, though, is walking around with evidence of the bad stuff splashed across his skin. Walking through town and seeing people stare is enough to make him want to stay home for the rest of his life, but he doesn’t. What he does is raise his chin, smile brightly, and put on a jacket as soon as the air cools down enough to allow it.</p><p>He spends the whole summer like that. They go to Mexico to visit his mom’s family, and Jeremy wears t-shirts with elbow length sleeves and deflects questions about the indigo stain with disarming smiles and questions of his own designed to change the subject. When they get home, he’s more tanned than ever, but his arm is an ugly combination of black and bright, <em> bright </em> yellow, almost too bright to be yellow. Like a neon light, a cheap, buzzing sign that signals to anyone who sees it that <em> this is not a place to hang around</em>. </p><p>Part of Jeremy wonders what colour he is: whether he’s gentle yellow, like his mom’s happy colour; whether he’s dark blue, like the colour that makes him feel so sad, so lonely, that when it shows up on his arm it breaks his heart; whether he’s something completely different. He’s always thought about that, even before his mark showed up. He’s wanted to know what he would look like on someone else’s skin. It’s the kind of thing kids dream about, and then grow out of dreaming about, only Jeremy’s fast approaching his <em> teenage years </em> (as his abuela calls them) and he hasn’t stopped dreaming yet.</p><p>He still thinks about that green. The first sign of someone else out there.</p><p>It’s strange how much that colour sticks in his mind. He never sees it anymore. He hasn’t seen it in months. But he remembers exactly how it looks on his skin, he recognises it in the strangest places, and every time he sees it, he remembers how happy it made him. He’s associating colours in the world more and more with the ones he sees on his arm; it’s not good, because it just reminds him that the person he’s thinking about could be on the other side of the world, might never be in the same place as him. It’s silly, it’s sentimental, and it’s bordering on unhealthy, but Jeremy wants so desperately to meet them that he uses the links he draws to remind himself of that. To remind himself that one day, he’ll find whoever it is that’s hurting so badly, and he’ll do everything in his power to make sure they never feel that way again. When he’s grown up, he’ll be able to do that. Right now, all he can do is watch the shifting emotions and respond to them the only way he knows to; he smiles. </p><p>His mother once told him that if he smiled, the world would smile with him. And, well, Jeremy really hopes that’s true right now.</p><p>By the time school starts up again, he’s good at smiling and even better at ignoring his mark.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jean thinks about his soulmate in shades of yellow: soft buttercup yellow; bright, glowing yellow; the sort of yellow that spreads like warmth, like melting butter on toast. It’s the colour he sees the most. </p><p>He never used to like yellow. It wasn’t that he hated it, but it was never a favourite. Too bright and it would set him on edge; too dark and it just looked gross.</p><p>So it’s weird that Jean’s soulmate reminds him of yellow.</p><p>His mark is a beautiful thing. It has been since the day it appeared, curling from the back of his hand, just under his index finger knuckle, around his wrist and wriggling up the vein on the inside of his forearm before it tapers off into nothing. He spends an inordinate amount of time staring at it. And he’s angry; he was always going to be angry. He’s angry that he’s here, in a strange country. He hates the people who took him; they don’t let him speak French, they slice his accent out of his throat and leave him with ugly, bland English. He hates the Nest; it’s dark, he doesn’t get to see the sun, he has to share a room. He hates Exy; it’s an incredibly <em> American </em> sport, and its only upside is that he gets to take out his anger on the boy whose family took him.</p><p>That idea gets beaten out of him within a month.</p><p>He trains hard because he has to train hard. There’s a number drawn on his face reminding him that he will never be the best, but he’s been chosen and that means he has to constantly strive to be the best. He’s always, always moving towards a goal that takes two steps back for every one he takes forward. It’s not fair. </p><p>He’s pissed, and he responds to what upsets him accordingly. It makes him incredibly disliked. Maybe, he thinks, if he pisses them off in return they’ll send him home. If he rebels, he’ll get his way. He’ll escape. It doesn’t happen.</p><p>What happens instead is that the boy with the sharp, mean face and unkind smile is given the task of adjusting his ‘attitude’. The boy’s brother watches and does nothing, says nothing. When it’s over and Jean is shaking on the floor, throat raw and dry from pleading, the brother comes to his side and says, in halting French, “lève-toi.” He says, “tu dois arrêter de l’énerver.” He says, “ne lui demande pas grâce.” Jean stands up and swears, spits blood on the floor as his knees shake under his weight and the brother slides a careful arm around him.</p><p>“J’veux partir,” he says, “j’veux plus être ici.” He gets an unapologetic shrug, but he also gets bandages and what little aspirin the brother can give him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sometimes, Jeremy’s arm is purple. It starts with either deep red or sky blue. One of those colours will inevitably swirl into the other, and the purple explodes across his skin like a paintball. It’s bright, it’s in-your-face, it’s <em> defiant</em>. It refuses to be ignored or overlooked. He’s proud of his soulmate when that happens, because it feels like they’re fighting back. At thirteen, Jeremy can’t imagine what they’re fighting back against, but he’s clever enough to know that it’s something bad.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The feeling of <em> dépaysement</em>, Jean hopes, will fade. In a year, maybe two. By the time three years have passed, it hasn’t faded. But he’s much better at pretending it has. He thinks, <em> I don’t belong there anymore. That’s not home</em>. It doesn’t help. Because if that isn’t home, and this isn’t home, then he has nowhere.</p><p>Life at a university when he’s only fifteen is weird. It’s taken him years to shed his accent - years and so many bruises - and it’s a process that is absolutely helped along by Riko and his hatred of Jean’s native language. He doesn’t let Jean have anything of his own. Out of spite, Jean teaches Kevin French early on. He doesn’t tell anyone and neither does Kevin, but Kevin will come to his side when Riko leaves him alone, will kneel next to him and talk so quietly that if it weren’t for the crushing silence that sits heavily over the Nest, Jean wouldn’t hear him. In return, Kevin shares his voice with Jean, lets him co-opt it and practice mimicking him to even out his own voice. But even with his new, neatly clipped American accent, Jean doesn’t belong there. He’s too young, for starters. He’s too serious. His soulmark is too bright. He’s not as good at Exy as the other two (at least at first. That changes.) He doesn’t have a family anymore. He's property. When he turns fifteen, he hits a year long growth spurt that doesn’t stop until he’s over six feet tall, lanky and self-conscious next to the other two. It’s a relief when Kevin comes up just a couple of inches shorter than him. Riko isn’t as angry. When he draws on Jean’s face, tracing over faded ink, he doesn’t dig his nails into Jean’s cheek to hold him still.</p><p>That’s worse, somehow. The facade of kindness.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jeremy is seventeen. He’s on his way to Exy practice. His backpack is falling off his shoulder, his racquet is trying to trip him up, and he’s five minutes late. He shoulders through the door of the locker room and cries out, stumbling, as his arm lights up white. For a moment, his brain tells him that he’s the one in pain. Then it catches up and he wishes it hadn’t. It’s been a while since his soulmate has hurt so much that it eclipses everything else, but now the only colour he can see is white. There’s a dull ache on his cheek, just below his temple, and his eyes are watering in sympathy. He doesn’t know what’s happening, he thinks he must have hit his face on the door when he tripped, but when he makes his way over to the mirror there’s no bruise or anything. Just pain.</p><p>His coach eyes him critically when he finally makes it onto the court, pale and drawn. He thinks he’s about to get sent home. If he gets sent home, he thinks he’ll lose his mind, and it must show on his face because no one says anything about the way he looks. He plays hard, until he’s out of breath and his legs are burning, and he manages to forget about the pain in his face. He doesn’t look at his arm until after his shower, while he’s getting dressed.</p><p>There’s nothing there. </p><p>It’s not that there’s nothing bad, not that it’s grey and blank like it sometimes is. There’s no colour at all. Jeremy’s never seen anything like it. He knows where the mark should be, and it’s <em> not there</em>. He sits down heavily on the nearest bench as he stares at the empty skin, thinks about crying. Doesn’t cry. He doesn’t know what he would be crying for, he can’t think. His head doesn’t work, it’s full of cotton and it’s buzzing until he can’t hear anything else. It feels like his brain’s been numbed. Like part of him is missing.</p><p>His mom’s words come back to him, filtering across years and cutting through all the muddled colours that have been on his skin. <em>If your soulmate dies, the colours fade</em>. His soulmate is dead. They’re dead and he never knew who they were. All Jeremy has done for the last five years is try to help a stranger without ever even knowing their name, where they are, all he’s been able to do is just fucking <em> smile</em>, and now they’re gone. He’ll never know, he won’t get the chance to know. When he drags himself off the bench, his legs are shaking, and he barely makes it to the trash can before he vomits.</p><p>Jeremy is seventeen years old and there’s nothing where there should be something. <em> It’s too soon</em>, his mind yells. He swallows back a fresh wave of nausea, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he straightens up. The idea of telling his mom terrifies him, but his mark is... his mark <em> was </em> so obnoxiously big that he can’t exactly hide its loss. He scrubs clammy hands over his face and sniffles, and out of pure instinct, a smile slides onto his face. </p><p>He smiles because at one point, he had to.</p><p>And the longer he smiles, the more his eyes burn, until he’s simultaneously sobbing and grinning, and he has to look insane but there’s no one around to see him so he cries and cries until there’s nothing left. And then, because he’s late and he has to pick up his sisters from ballet on his way home, he gathers his stuff and leaves the locker room, eyes raw but dry, mouth tilted up at the corners. He doesn’t say a word to his sisters, and he thanks God that they don’t notice, just pile into the backseat of his car talking a mile a minute, lean over to kiss his cheek and pull his hair, then settle into bickering about something he doesn’t understand and doesn’t care to listen to. It’s so normal, and it’s so much harder to deal with. Nothing can be normal, surely. </p><p>Jeremy takes his time getting out of the car. The girls pile inside, calling for their parents. The sky is blue and clear. It’s warm when he opens the door. He can smell hot asphalt and grass. He focuses on that as he steps out and sees his father on the porch, raising a hand to greet him. There’s a band of something around his wrist; deep grey. It’s like a storm cloud. It’s dark, charcoal coloured. He wouldn’t even have noticed if he weren’t acutely aware of what he’d expected to be empty skin. It’s a bracelet, thin enough to be almost invisible. Jeremy almost breaks down all over again. There’s someone out there.</p><p>He grinds out as cheerful a greeting as he can manage as he jogs up the porch steps, and his dad squeezes his shoulder as he disappears inside. Jeremy, on the other hand, takes a minute or two to sit on the steps, backpack leaning against his feet, and pull his jacket off so he can watch colour return. It’s muddy, dark, grey verging on black, but it’s there and he’s never been so grateful for that. He sits there for much longer than the minute he’d intended. The sun is sinking, trembling in the red sky as it lowers towards the horizon, when his mom comes to the door to bring him in for dinner. His jacket is abandoned at his feet, and he’s staring at his arm still. The colour has reached his shoulder again, but it’s faded somehow. Like it’s projected onto his skin, rather than indelibly inked there. He’s afraid to look away in case it disappears completely.</p><p>“I think they’re dead,” he says to his mom for the second time in his life when she sits on the step next to him. She smooths his hair back, lets him lean against her, and sighs.</p><p>“If your soulmate dies, the colours fade away,” she murmurs again. It’s meant to reassure him, he knows that. It doesn’t reassure him. He doesn’t understand how the colour can return, but Maritsa’s mouth is pinched in worry when he raises his head, so he doesn’t mention it. He smiles, and she smiles in return.</p><p>“Thanks, mamá.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>Jean isn’t one for hope. He’s been in the US for seven years now, and he’s just signed away the next five to Edgar Allan University, as if he had a choice otherwise. They have owned him since the day he stepped onto that plane, and, he knows, they will own him until he dies or retires. </p><p>(Sometimes he wonders if it’s better to be owned than to be alone.)</p><p>Jean lives in the dark. He wears black, he plays in black, the number on his face is inked in stark, permanent black. He lives in a dark room with a boy with a black smile, and the only colour he has is wrapped around his wrist, indelible and shining even in the dark. A vivid reminder of his soulmate’s continuing existence. He doesn’t think it makes much of a difference to him whether they’re alive or not. </p><p>(It’s not true. If his mark weren’t there, he would shatter.)</p><p>It’s dazzlingly bright. There’s always colour. Even in what must be his soulmate’s worst moments, when the colour is stormy grey-blue, like slate under lashing rain. There’s always colour; it never dims, never fades. It’s like there’s too many feelings going on at once for his mark to convey.</p><p>(His favourite is when it’s yellow.)</p><p>Yellow like a nightlight. It doesn’t burn, it glows. It’s like the sun he so rarely gets to enjoy anymore, like sunset clipping the tips of waves. He doesn’t see much yellow in the Nest. It’s happiness, it’s contentment, joy, optimism. It’s hope for the present and for the future. Jean will always struggle to find the words to truly express the brightness, but it doesn’t matter. His soulmate clashes unapologetically with the darkness of Edgar Allan. That’s what Jean needs. The <em> douleur exquise </em> of staring at a mark that glows, clear and calm, against a backdrop of black and knowing that whoever this ribbon of sunlight belongs to, he won’t meet them. They’ll always be happy, and they’ll always be out of reach, because for him the sun is unattainable. It can’t break through the shadow of the Nest.</p><p>He wonders if his soulmate’s mark stands out. If his own mark is so out of place, he concludes, his soulmate’s must be too.</p><p><em> Good</em>, he thinks.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jeremy is eighteen and his soulmate is afraid.</p><p>Well. Jeremy’s soulmate is always afraid. If it were any other situation, he might wonder if it’s a college thing. He’s on edge every morning, waiting for the mail. USC hasn’t given him an official offer yet. He’s sure they will, which sounds spectacularly conceited and yet is, fundamentally, the truth. Still, he’d like to have the letter in his hands sooner rather than later, that’s just human nature. USC is his dream school, after all. So all things considered, Jeremy would have put the blaring red of his skin down to an overreaction to college applications if it weren’t for who his soulmate is. For once he can’t focus on it; his abuelita is sick, he’s desperate to hear from USC, and he chooses to deal with his own negative emotions because those are the ones he can work through. He can’t afford to put them aside right now, because if he does then eventually they’ll overwhelm him.</p><p>He doesn’t look. And he doesn’t look. And then something happens, he doesn’t know what, but he <em> feels </em>it before he sees it. There’s a moment when he catches a glimpse of shifting colours on his skin while he’s out on a run; his stomach twists instinctively and he sighs through clenched teeth, shakes his head, picks up the pace. He’s afraid of what he’ll see if he glances down, so he waits until he gets home, taking the stairs two at a time in his rush to get up to his room before he can get roped into a conversation. He perches on the edge of his bed and sweeps his fingertips lightly up the length of his forearm, tracing the black that’s crept like a shadow across his skin. It makes his chest tighten. It eclipses everything else. When that colour shows up, it always, always, bleeds into everything else, muddies whatever else his soulmate is feeling. That’s the only reason Jeremy thinks he knows what it means; because when he’s tense, when he’s that anxious, it tends to block out everything else. The only thing he can think about is his anxiety.</p><p>He wonders, like he always does, what is so stressful.</p><p>He smiles, like he always does.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s Kevin who first brings Andrew Minyard to Riko’s attention. The guy’s a psychopath. Maybe he and Riko would get on, Jean thinks with bitter amusement.</p><p>They do not get on.</p><p>What ends up happening, Jean hears afterwards - as regimented as the Ravens are, gossip this momentous still flies around the team - is they show up, Andrew takes one look at Kevin and refuses point blank to sign. What ends up happening is Andrew steps into Riko’s space (Jean shudders at the idea) and tells him in no uncertain terms that one: Kevin is better than him, and two: he will not join the Ravens because a team that relies on hobbling its best players for the sake of its captain’s ego isn’t a team he’s interested in. Some accounts offer up a third argument: fuck off.</p><p>Riko and Kevin return in silence. Jean doesn’t ask what happened. He keeps his head down and for once, this doesn’t fall back on him. It falls back on Kevin. Jean patches him up afterwards. He doesn’t say anything to get onto Riko's radar, but when Riko sees what he does for Kevin, it doesn't matter how silent he is.</p><p>Andrew Minyard signs with the Palmetto State Foxes not a week later.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i am fluent in french but also dumb so let me know if i'm Wrong:</p><p>Chéri, faut nous faire confiance, s’il te plaît. – Sweetheart, you have to trust us, please.<br/>Ils veilleront bien sur toi. Je te promets. – They'll take good care of you. I promise you. (this is IRONIC, isn't it?)<br/>Lève-toi. – Get up.<br/>Tu dois arrêter de l’énerver. - You need to stop annoying him.<br/>Ne lui demande pas grâce. - Don't ask him for mercy.<br/>J’veux partir. J’veux plus être ici. - I want to leave. I don't want to be here anymore. (my french is spectacularly slangy here, i won't apologise)<br/>dépaysement - the feeling of displacement, of not belonging in a country or culture<br/>douleur exquise - literally, exquisite pain. it's the pain of unrequited love - the heartache that comes from caring about someone who will never care about you the same way. for jean, this is because his soulmate will never get the chance to love him, but he has come, already, to rely on them. :-)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. raven, sing me a happy song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jeremy cannot catch a break. Coincidentally, neither can Jean.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ok this is where that referenced non-con comes into play: if that's a trigger for you, PLEASE just skip the first paragraph and head to the line break - you won't miss much and you are more important</p><p>title comes from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cl_NE_Si7hI"> this song</a></p><p>alternate title for this chapter was as follows: 'an open letter to riko moriyama; have a horrible day henny'</p><p>french is, as always, in the end notes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ironically Jean doesn’t think he realises how little he means until his first real year of college.</p><p>Not just to Riko and Kevin, although <em> fuck </em> both of them; no, also to the team. Jean isn’t quite one of the favourites, but he’s sure as hell not just another one of them. The tattoo on his cheek marks him as different. The bruises, the stitches, the bandages, they all mark him as different. He’s pitifully unpopular, and yet the first time Riko jabs a finger into a junior’s face and sends him to Jean’s bed, he agrees. Despite the look on Jean’s face, despite the pleading that he hasn’t let himself do in <em> years</em>, he agrees, and when it’s over Riko wipes sweat off Jean’s pale face and pinches his cheek hard enough to bruise.</p><p>Every time, he wonders what it looks like on his soulmate’s skin. The guilt and shame almost choke him. At least they don’t leave finger marks.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s not until his sophomore year of college that Jeremy actually dates for the first time. All things considered, that’s not a terrible timeline, when he thinks about how <em> horribly </em>freshman year went for him and his soulmate, when the colour of his arm has been known to scare people off before they’ve spoken more than two words to him. He meets a really cute guy from the lacrosse team at a party. Max is a junior, he’s tall, the flash of white teeth against dark skin when he laughs catches Jeremy’s eye from across the room, and he’s just drunk enough to be bold when he sidles up next to him and introduces himself. They hit it off immediately.</p><p>It’s nice with Max. It’s easy. They know their soulmarks don’t match up, but that doesn’t really matter to either of them right now. Even Jeremy. He’s seen so much change, he’s watched the play of anguish and terror and agony bleeding across his skin nonstop for years, and this is a distraction. He thinks he could fall in love with Max. Maybe he does fall in love with Max. He’s always loved easily.</p><p>Their relationship isn’t quite three months old when things come tumbling down. They’re in Jeremy’s room, Max’s hand is looped into Jeremy’s curls, and they’re not watching something on his laptop, which sits forgotten at the end of the bed. He’s always wondered what colour he must project at times like these. The broad stripe across Max’s hip is a soft blue when Jeremy sweeps his tongue over it, the colour of sleepy contentedness, same as the winter sky outside. Jeremy’s arm is deep, charcoal grey. He’s ignoring it. He bites at the jut of Max’s hipbone, his gaze darting upwards as Max arches in response, watching the reaction play across his face. It’s his favourite thing to do; he can’t see it mirrored on his own skin, so he watches it on Max’s face instead, because Max is expressive anyway but he also knows that Jeremy likes to see what’s going on in his head. In the quiet room, their breathing is loud, he can hear Max swallow roughly when he dips his head a little lower, slides his hands up to his hips, and then there’s an awful, awful tightness in his chest and his arm explodes with brilliant colour, and he jerks back so fast he slips and tumbles off the bed. He’s shaking as he stares at the mark, at the blinding white; it’s not the first time he’s seen it, and yet this is the brightest he’s ever seen. He doesn’t know exactly what it means, but it pierces his skull, it shines into his eyes until they tear up, and everything around him is shut out by how all-encompassing it is, and he’s wondered for a long time if white means pain but now he’s almost certain. How could it not, when it scorches through him like this, when it’s the only thing he knows now and it takes up all the space he has until there’s no room in his lungs for oxygen anymore?</p><p>He sits there either for minutes or for hours, staring and shaking and crying, and it’s only when the white starts to thread through with bloody red that he can think again. Max is sitting quietly on the edge of his bed, and Jeremy begs him to just leave. He tries to protest, puts a hand gently on Jeremy’s shoulder and kneels at his side. “I can’t leave you like this.” Jeremy pushes him away and yells at him to go, and finally he does. He may not fully understand what’s wrong with Jeremy’s soulmate, but he understands when he needs to be alone. Gradually, deep indigo trickles across his skin, and it’s heartbreaking but at least it’s familiar, right? It makes him sad to watch, always does, but as is routine for him now, he plasters a smile on his face and pulls a sweater on to cover his mark. His soulmate is grieving for something, they’re terrified, so Jeremy puts the proof of that out of sight and curls up in bed with a coffee and FaceTimes his mom.</p><p>She knows something’s wrong the moment she sees his face; Jeremy’s been dealing with this for years now, Maritsa has come to recognise when it’s gone wrong again. They talk quietly about nothing in particular, his sisters hear his voice and come running to say hi, show him what they’ve been doing at school. His dog barks in the background. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, it’s familiar. By the time his mother clears everyone else away, he’s laughing, and her eyes are so gentle when she sits back down in front of the screen that it makes his heart clench with love for her.</p><p>“Mi amor,” she starts seriously, leaning in as if their discussion were something secret. “You are okay, aren’t you?”</p><p>Jeremy thinks about that. Is he okay? He’s happy more often than not, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt the kind of pain or anger or fear that his soulmate does. Relatively speaking, he’s thriving. “Not really, but I have to be. I want them to think I am. They’re so afraid, mamá. Someone hurt them really bad today.” His fingers curl into a fist, and he feels a twinge run through them. Probably his grip’s too tight. He relaxes it.</p><p>For a moment, his mother watches him. His words hang there, and he smiles wanly. Her voice is warm when she speaks again. “You’re good to them.” She nods approvingly, reaches out as if to touch his face through the screen, and impossibly Jeremy feels the phantom brush of her fingers against his cheek. It makes him happy, thank God. Wipes away the lingering sadness. “Te quiero, Jeremy. Look after yourself.”</p><p>They say their goodbyes, and Jeremy clings onto the memory of her soft expression and gentle touch as he picks up the reading for his history class. It keeps the worst thoughts at bay. He doesn’t look at his arm again until he’s getting ready for bed, and when he sees the lack of colour, he forces himself to smile brighter, blinks away tears, and refuses to consider what it might mean.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next morning, Max texts him. He makes sure Jeremy’s okay, because that’s just who he is and Jeremy loves it, and then asks to meet. They pick a cafe on campus. Jeremy knows this is gonna be the breakup talk. The cafe is bland, public, they’ve never been there together before, and it’s a pretty equal distance from each of them.</p><p>Max is already there when he arrives. It’s too hot for long sleeves but Jeremy is wearing them anyway. He woke up this morning to grey threaded through with white. Like static, white noise. He doesn’t want anyone to see it. Not today. Not Max. He slides into the empty seat and puts his cup of tea down on the table between them; tea, not coffee, because he’s anxious enough and he doesn’t need to add caffeine to that. “Hi.” It’s not enough. It doesn’t begin to cover everything in his mind, and he thinks Max knows that, because his face softens imperceptibly.</p><p>“How are you?”</p><p>Fucking fantastic, Jeremy thinks hollowly. “Okay.”</p><p>The silence settles around them, heavy on his shoulders even as they crunch up to somewhere around his ears. </p><p>“Jer—“</p><p>“Wait.” He doesn’t have a game plan, but he can’t bear the pity in Max’s eyes. “I know.” </p><p>“You know?” </p><p>“You’re breaking up with me, right?” He’s weirdly proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t even wobble.</p><p>Max hesitates for a moment. “I just think you’ve got a lot going on, Jer. I don’t want this to be, like, stressful for you. It’s not fair for you and it’s not fucking fair for me either.” He gestures to Jeremy’s arm as if he can see the colour of it through his shirt. “Whatever the hell’s going on here, I think you wanna focus on that. I’m sorry, I really am, I just… I don’t want to come between you and whoever you’re hoping to save.” </p><p>Jeremy’s heart squeezes painfully. It hurts, just as he’d expected it to hurt, because no matter how preoccupied he always has been by his soulmate, he likes Max a hell of a lot. It’s hard to admit that a stranger will probably always come first. Especially a stranger with as much fucked up shit as his soulmate clearly has. But it’s exactly because of the fucked up shit that Jeremy aches so intensely for whoever stains his arm those colours. For almost seven years, he’s been dealing with the emotions splashed across his arm. For almost seven years, he’s been trying to counter the negative with his own happiness. He just didn’t realise that it would be so hard to let that go. By nature he’s always been compassionate. People have called it a bad thing, they always have and they always will, but Jeremy is a staunch believer in being kind. In caring about what others care about. He doesn’t want to just give up the way literally everyone does, because he knows that somewhere out there, someone is suffering <em> that much. </em> Giving up and settling down is inconceivable to him.</p><p>There’s another moment of silence. Jeremy’s shoulders ease back down from his ears, the band around his heart loosens, and when he reaches for his cup again the sleeve of his shirt twitches up a little too far. He presses his lips tightly together, watching Max flinch backwards slightly, and bows his head over his tea. “You don’t have to stay.” Because he wants more than anything to look at his wrist, but he also wants to prove that just this once he can stay focused on the person in front of him, and not the person miles away from him.</p><p>Even though he fucking <em> can’t</em>.</p><p>His hand has been aching weirdly all morning, which hasn’t improved his mood at all. He probably slept on it or something, he does that a lot. </p><p>(He doesn’t really, but if he tells himself that then he won’t put two and two together and come up with anything close to the truth.)</p><p>Max lingers for a moment next to his chair, and his look is so pitying and so knowing that Jeremy feels his skin crawl a little. It’s strange to feel that known; is it so obvious that he wants to look? But bless him, Max doesn’t say anything, just leans down to press a kiss into Jeremy’s hair. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” he murmurs, and then he’s gone.</p><p>Gone.</p><p>Jeremy peels his sleeve up, away from his wrist and up to his elbow. Red, red, red. Danger. It puts him on edge, it makes his heart beat faster, and the worst bit of it isn’t the red, it’s the patches that are bleeding into white. Like bloody sheets, like a popsicle melting and dripping into the pale skin of his palm, like watercolour in reverse. They’re in pain and they’re afraid, and for a moment his mind conjures up images of, like... medieval torture chambers or some shit. That’s the only thing he can <em> think </em>of. And once he thinks of it once it’s so hard to stop, it’s almost impossible. He swallows back the remainder of his painfully hot tea, grateful for how it scalds his tongue, and pulls his sleeve back down as he stands up. He has a paper to do, reading to do, and he’s not going to do any of it today. He’s going back to bed. He’s going to watch something that’ll make him forget about the phantom aches and the colour of his arm. He’s going to force himself to be happy and hope that it shines through bright enough to remind someone who needs it that he’s in their corner.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Je ne peux plus continuer comme ça. </em>
</p><p>Jean had never broken a bone before he came to the US. It’s odd to think about now, as he (not for the first time) haphazardly splints and wraps his fingers. Fingers he broke himself. Because he was told to. </p><p>There was a time when he would have refused; refused and refused again until it was done for him. This time, he hadn’t. This time, he’d stared at the deep rosy pink wrapped around his wrist and curling up over the back of his hand, the threads of sunny gold that wound their way seamlessly into it. He’d watched his soulmate love someone else, and he’d watched that love shatter into horror along with his bones.</p><p>As he sits and wraps cotton around his hand, tears drying on his face now that he’s alone in the room, he stares at his wrist, twitches his sleeve out of the way so he can see. Some sick part of him wants to see the love again. It’s not for him - it’ll never be for him - but he wants to see it and know that at least his soulmate is happy and in love. Know that at least he hasn’t ruined that for them. </p><p>So it lands that much more heavily when Jean sees nothing but blues and greys.</p><p>He lies in bed and stares blankly at his wrist until that one blink when his eyes don’t open again.</p><p>It’s still blue when he wakes up. It’s blue while he’s changing for practice. He chances a look at it before he straps his pads on, and his heart cracks into yet another piece, because for the majority of his life, his wrist has been buttercup yellow, it’s been sky blue, it’s been deep rose, mint green, but it’s so rarely been this dark, dark navy blue. This is something special, something reserved for his worst moments. It’s heartbreak. He wonders what his soulmate’s skin looks like. What colour he is. When his eyes lift, Riko is watching him, and his stomach lurches so sickeningly sharply he has to swallow back bile. He clasps his racquet tightly in his left hand and sets his jaw. </p><p>
  <em> Il faut continuer. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Riko doesn’t say anything to him until they’re back in the Nest. Until the door closes and it’s just the three of them again. One look and Kevin leaves the room; Riko knows Kevin won’t join in. He doesn’t need sympathy for Jean to get in the way. The only reason Jean is still alive is because he has to be. He has a debt to pay.</p><p>Jean stands stiffly by the door, so Kevin has to slide past him to leave. They exchange a glance; Kevin’s eyes are dark, warning him to just stay quiet. Jean’s eyes are pale and cool, refusing to bow down. His right hand twinges. Then Kevin’s gone and it’s just Jean and Riko. Cold fingers wrap around his forearm, Riko yanks his arm forward, and he bites down on a sharp inhale so that it won’t make a noise, because the movement <em> hurts </em>, it jars his broken fingers horribly. By the look on Riko’s face, that’s the plan. A dark head bends over his arm, nails digging in as he twists it carelessly to inspect Jean’s mark, and all Jean can do is stand there, teeth sunk into his lower lip, and breathe shakily through flared nostrils. </p><p>“What does it mean?” Riko asks him almost disinterestedly, letting Jean’s arm fall to his side again. Jean knows better than to assume he isn’t interested. He hates the casual intrusiveness of the question, though. Responses rise unbidden; do I look like a mind reader? What do you care? What does yours look like? He doesn’t say any of them. </p><p>Jean shrugs. “Tired.”</p><p>Riko doesn’t believe him. Jean’s head jerks to the side with the force of the slap, eyes tearing up instinctively, and he breathes in very calmly before he turns his face forward again.</p><p>“Guess it doesn’t matter,” Riko says coolly as he lowers himself into his desk chair. “You’ll never know them.”</p><p>It’s true, isn’t it? Jean won’t escape Evermore’s shadow, Jean won’t escape Riko. Jean doesn’t get to have a soulmate, not really. He belongs to the Moriyamas, not to someone he’s never met. Not to someone who, most likely, won’t even want him.</p><p>He turns to leave the room and Riko stops him with a sharp word. “Take Kevin and go get that plastered,” he says without looking at Jean. Jean knows what he’s talking about. “You’re useless enough, if it doesn’t heal right you’re less than that.” Jean’s fingertips twitch almost imperceptibly. Riko’s right; if his hand is permanently damaged, he’ll have outlived his usefulness to the family. He can’t repay the Moreau debt if he can’t play Exy. That thought will keep him up at night until he’s back on court with no bandages. He wants to survive, his drive to see the other side of his time at Evermore is stronger than he’d ever thought possible, and if he can’t play, Riko will have free rein. He won’t get out.</p><p>He nods silently and leaves the room. Kevin’s waiting outside. Green eyes zero in on his slightly flushed cheek and Kevin’s jaw ticks just once. For a moment, Jean wonders if Kevin’s going to do anything. Kevin doesn’t. Jean doesn’t blame him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It frustrates Jean, a few months later, that Kevin’s hand is plastered. Probably it shouldn’t do, right? He knows what Riko’s capable of (probably better than Kevin did) and when they’re alone? After Riko has been so intensely humiliated that way? He can only imagine. The look on Kevin’s face when he returns with his hand in a cast is one Jean knows well; Kevin is <em> terrified</em>. Whatever Riko did to him, they all know it will damage his Exy career. The question is only <em>how much?</em></p><p>That doesn’t mean it doesn’t get to him, though. That Kevin merits that kind of care. Every bone Jean has broken, he’s had to deal with himself. He reset his nose, he strapped up his fingers. The only reason Riko let him get those fixed is because of his debt. He knew Kevin was the favourite, he knew he was nothing, he’s always known that. There’s something different about seeing it so obviously, though. And bitterly, he thinks that if Jean had been the second, Kevin the third, Kevin would have given up long ago.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>again, dumb bitch hours in this house are 24/7 hennies</p><p>Je ne peux plus continuer comme ça. - I can't keep going like this.<br/>Il faut continuer. - I have to keep going</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. black bird, black moon, black sky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Meeting your soulmate isn't always the world falling away from under your feet. And even if it is, there's no guarantee you'll notice.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warning for very vaguely referenced suicide in this chapter!</p><p>ladies and gentlemen, the angst in this bus is astronomical</p><p>chapter title comes <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWKDZRJWdF4"> this song</a>. this song in a jean moreau playlist makes me feral.</p><p>alternate titles include:<br/>1) jean in a suit (thats it)<br/>2) jeremy in a suit (thats it)<br/>3) laila and sara im so sorry<br/>4) kevin day more like kevin die x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life after Max goes back to normal pretty quickly. Relatively normal, at least, because for a good month Jeremy’s arm is, like, <em> constantly </em> bright red. He hides his terror over it behind jokes about his soulmate being a Trojans fan, he calls his mom every couple of days, and he smiles more and wider than he ever did before. It’s fine, right? </p><p>Everything is fine. </p><p>The Trojans are having one of their strongest seasons this year, and it’s a welcome distraction. They’re on track for the finals, which is no surprise if Jeremy does say so himself. They’re <em> good</em>. And even Jeremy, who - it’s common knowledge by now - has a roughly person-sized problem, can put that aside and focus on the game. It helps. It’s good. He plays, he practices, he studies, he cries, and he keeps an eye on the rest of the league. Some of it’s healthy, some of it isn’t, but he tells himself it works for him and eventually it starts doing just that. He can’t ignore the colours - the klaxon alarm red, the blinding white, the deep and bottomless black - but he can pretend he doesn’t know what they mean. He can pretend the red is love, the white happiness; if it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, he doesn’t let that bitterness drip from his teeth when he smiles.</p><p>It’s a shame that Jeremy’s team colours are what they are, because his newly developed aversion to bright red means that it’s a daily battle to dress for practice. Really, he knows he needs to work on that, on readjusting the way he thinks about red. He needs to associate it with what he loves - Exy, his team - and not with the heart crushing, gut wrenching terror his soulmate feels. He doesn’t know what’s so terrifying, and he thinks he doesn’t want to know. </p><p>He starts spending more and more time with Sara Alvarez and Laila Dermott. He likes being around them, because they understand him better than most.</p><p>Laila’s mark isn’t. It just isn’t. She tells him she hasn’t had one in two years. She remembers exactly where it used to be, can trace its path up from her knee to her inner thigh. She remembers that it was blue, dark blue, and yet so faint it was almost not there for a good year before it disappeared completely. As if her soulmate was barely present. Her heart still breaks for them and what they must have been going through. She remembers the day she woke up without a mark, because she remembers thinking <em> thank God</em>, remembers the relief that came from realising that it was over for them. Both of them.</p><p>Sara has a mark; it winds between the fingers of her right hand and trickles onto her palm. For as long as she can remember, it’s been grey, pale and constant. She still believes that it could change, but she doesn’t hope for that. There’s no point in hoping. She and Laila are inseparable. They’re Jeremy’s best friends, because they don’t look at his arm with pity. They pick him up when it gets too much, they make him smile and they remind him that his mark is still vivid and still changes. Sometimes he forgets about that. He forgets that he does, occasionally, still see the purple. That deep, intense purple that says <em> no, not today</em>. It says <em> I’m mad and I’m going to live to make you regret this</em>. Jeremy loves that colour so fucking much. </p><p>If only that were the colour he could associate with his soulmate, right?</p><p>He’s two weeks away from winter break and he’s not excited. He hasn’t been excited in a long time. His soulmark never fucking lets up, and it’s not that he resents it or anything, but god. He just wants a break, and not the kind of break that leaves him wondering whether the colour will return. He misses the green. That’s probably why he ends up buying an overpriced sage green tie for the NCAA winter banquet. He regrets that move almost immediately, because under his jacket as he leaves the store his arm is still white, and every time he catches a glimpse of the tie in his closet it makes him shudder to think of the pain his soulmate is in. He doesn’t return it, though. He holds onto it. He keeps it and by the time the banquet rolls round, he can look at it without flinching, so that’s a victory. A small, private victory.</p><p>All things considered, he could have been in a much worse mood. He steps onto the Breckenridge court, co-opted for the occasion and given a makeover that <em> almost </em> covers the smell of sweat and Exy pads, with Laila at one side, Sara at the other. The rest of the team disappears almost immediately. The three of them make a beeline for an unsupervised table full of wine glasses, scooping up a couple each and melting away before anyone can spot them. Jeremy has just drained one, depositing it surreptitiously on the nearest table and sliding his now-empty hand into the crook of Sara’s elbow with a sunny smile, when he catches sight of Coach Rhemann across the room, in what looks like a weird and tense conversation with a couple of others. One he recognises from Palmetto - he’s gesturing expansively, and looks furious with the third member of the conversation. Tetsuji Moriyama, on the other hand, is blank and cool. He shuts down the Palmetto coach with a terse hand gesture, and Jeremy doesn’t know if that’s some kind of creepy signal or what, but three guys appear at his side immediately. One, two, three. He’d have to be an idiot not to recognise them. Jeremy’s dumb, but he’s not an idiot.<br/>
<br/>
Kevin Day catches his attention. The shadows under his eyes are dark, cheeks gaunt; he looks like he hasn’t slept in a month. His hand is bandaged. Jeremy remembers hearing about his skiing accident. For a second, he considers the white of his arm. Then Kevin looks at him and the world keeps turning. Nothing changes. Sara tugs lightly at his hand to get his attention again, he shoots Kevin a sunny smile, and he looks away. Not him, then. He doesn’t see the faint twist of Kevin’s mouth, he doesn’t see the glare he gets from number 3. Doesn’t see pale eyes linger for a moment on the soft green knot at his throat.</p><p>When Jeremy slips away to the bathroom, he takes a second to tug at his shirtsleeve, peeking at the colour of his arm. He sees the white still, but like some kind of grotesque marble, there are veins of dark red and orange twisting through it, cut through at every turn by deep black slashes. It’s ugly and it’s visceral. He shivers, pulls his sleeve down, stares at himself in the mirror. He runs his fingers over the line of his tie. Green is good. Green is soft, it’s calm and quiet. Other colours are good too, in their own way; his mark isn’t as white as it can be. It’s gentler, it’s diluted. Pain isn’t the only thing his soulmate feels right now. He just wishes the other feelings were better.</p><p>Laila is waiting for him when he leaves the bathroom, and she slides her arm into his when he offers her an elbow, grinning and pressing another glass into his hand. He accepts it gratefully, squeezing her hand, and they return to the team together. Somehow they’ve wound up sharing a table with Binghamton; they’ve never seen eye to eye, but the Trojans aren’t the kind of people who’d bring that to any event. It helps that the Bearcats - and, really, every single one of the teams present - are distracted by the state of Kevin’s hand. Someone mentions how strange it is that Jean Moreau’s right hand matches Kevin’s left, like a sick mirror image. Jeremy raises his head to check that. He was so preoccupied by Kevin, he didn’t notice Jean. Now he looks, and he sees a cast on Jean’s hand, and his own hand aches in response. He blinks down, presses his thumb into the centre of his palm to try to work out whatever spasm is going on there, then looks back up and directly into Jean Moreau’s eyes. It’s like looking into someone’s sunglasses; there’s nothing there. Jean Moreau doesn’t look <em> at </em> him, he looks <em> through </em> him. There’s no emotion in his eyes. There’s nothing.</p><p>The world stops turning as Jeremy considers what has happened to Jean to make him look like that. What someone has to go through to become empty. The pit of his stomach drops uncomfortably. He feels unbalanced. Untethered. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks it has to be something to do with the blankness of Jean’s eyes. He doesn’t feel Sara jabbing an elbow into his side, he doesn’t hear his name being called. But he sees Riko Moriyama’s head turning towards him at a quiet word from Kevin. Riko smiles and next to him, Jean stiffens almost imperceptibly. Jeremy feels his heart rate pick up. Heat trickles down his arm. His wrist is red when he reaches hastily for his water. Over the rim of his glass, he sees Jean’s eyes slide sideways, towards Riko, then drop as his head bows. Riko doesn’t need to say anything to him. It’s a weird dynamic to witness, but his soulmark distracts him; his distant soulmate drags his attention away from what’s happening right in front of him. He rubs at his forearm, and when he looks back, there’s a mean twist to Jean’s mouth, his eyes are focused and <em> cold </em> when they meet Jeremy’s.</p><p>Maybe he imagined it.</p><p>He doesn’t look at Jean again for a while, though. Not until the world stops tilting and pitching beneath him.</p><p>He and Laila spend an inordinate amount of time, a few glasses of wine into the banquet, with their elbows propped on their table and chins in their hands as they stare not at all subtly at the Ravens’ table. The other team sits in relative silence. Riko’s head is bent towards Jean as he whispers something to him, and Jeremy watches Kevin slant a careful look towards the tall brunette. A look Jean ignores. Laila snorts and leans over, mirroring Riko unconsciously. “Why the fuck does Moreau act like his puppet?” she murmurs, ignoring Sara’s hand landing on her back to rein her in. “You’d think he’d get sick of it. The guy’s <em> good </em> at Exy, I’ve seen him play better than Riko.”</p><p>Jeremy shrugs distractedly, watching the corners of Jean’s mouth tilt downwards, his lips thin and his eyes lower. “They adopted him, right? Gave him a home and stuff. Probably feels like he owes Riko.”</p><p>“Maybe he just likes him,” Sara argues, shooting them both a warning look. They roll their eyes in unison, but drop it. For a minute. Then Laila whispers a quip about the Moriyamas’ supposed mafia connections into Jeremy’s ear, and they crack up. He doesn’t miss the fact that all three tattooed faces turn towards them, but at the same time he doesn’t really care. The conversation moves onto steadier ground. Kevin looks away first, and Jeremy watches him scan the room, fingers tapping distractedly against the table. It’s a strangely human motion to see from a Raven. His arm aches again.</p><p>He needs another drink.</p><p>At some point, he loses sight of the other three, too caught up in a drinking competition with the Jackals’ goalie (which he loses spectacularly). He and Laila and a few of the Breckenridge strikers find themselves in an intense discussion about how the hell the Ravens manage to be as coordinated as they are. The team is like a hive mind, they agree; mentions of telepathy are thrown around, suggestions that maybe they train, like, sixteen hours a day. They laugh and shake their heads, and the Ravens sit silent and cold, surveying the room like it’s their own court. They cast an unreasonably big shadow, but Jeremy still manages to have a good night. He manages not to meet Jean’s eyes again; at some point, he looks up and Kevin is gone, but Riko doesn’t look concerned by it, and Jean, he’s come to surmise, always looks kind of haunted.</p><p>He doesn’t see Kevin for the rest of the night. He <em> does </em> see Coach Moriyama’s face grow colder and colder with every passing hour. Jeremy does not want to think about the shit Kevin’s going to be in when he returns. As time wears on, his arm darkens. Even if he weren’t getting occasional glimpses of his wrist peeking out past his shirtsleeve, even if he couldn’t see the colours mingling together, muddying, he can feel it. He’s uneasy. There’s a tight coil in the pit of his stomach that tells him something’s wrong. So, because it’s a <em> nice night </em> and he refuses to let it be ruined, he grabs another drink and leaves it at that. His soulmate could be a thousand miles away. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he knows that he can’t help them.</p><p>Despite whatever’s going on - Jeremy does not think about what it is that’s going on - there’s no incidents worth reporting. The Ravens stay at their table, none of them talk to the Trojans or to anyone else. Jeremy flits between groups, manages to ingratiate himself into every single conversation, and fucking ignores the mean looks the Ravens are spreading around the room like it’s going out of style. He leaves happy, arm tucked around Sara’s waist so that he won’t see the colour of his wrist, propped between her and Laila so he won’t stumble. That’s not going to help him out. They’re staying a bus ride away, and the hotel isn’t great but it’s close enough that he doesn’t care, he can overlook a lot of shit. Especially when the floor is tilting slightly under his feet and he can’t stop laughing. The girls abandon him at his door with twin smiles and make him promise to text them when he wakes up.</p><p>His tie is so soft between his fingers when he pulls it off. For a moment, he stands still, staring at it, and smiles to himself. He still likes the green. Likes it more now, when he’s second-hand stressed and kinda drunk. He hooks it back around his neck, and unbuttons his shirt, slides it off. It drops to the floor. When he looks down to start on his shoes, he stops. His hands still. His arm is shades of charcoal and burgundy, and then deep indigo razes all of it away. Blue, red, khaki, grey. It all mixes together into betrayal and agony so deep that it steals his breath from his lungs. Green silk slips away, piles on the floor, and he leans sideways to brace a hand against the wall, staring and staring and <em> staring</em>.</p><p>White explodes over his skin.</p><p>It’s like a bomb going off. One minute it’s dark and miserable and he feels like his soulmark is sucking the light out of the room. Next minute, it’s blinding; it’s sending that light back out and it <em> burns</em>. It fucking burns his eyes, it scorches and he can’t catch his breath. “No no no-no-no-no,” he mutters, over and over again, repetitive and aiming for calming but falling way short. <em> Way </em> short. He’s panicking. He feels it, he knows he is. His breathing is too fast and his heart is pounding, he can hear it in his ears, but he can’t see anything other than the colour of his arm. He staggers, stumbles, half-falls onto his bed. Dimly, he thinks he might be crying. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the colour splashed up his arm. It’s all he can see, it crawls up his throat and he can’t breathe.</p><p>He can’t even <em> fathom </em> the kind of pain that does this. It’s white hot, it tears through him like a wildfire in August, it’s all-encompassing and he buries his tears in his too-flat pillow. For hours he lies there and stares at his arm. For hours his soulmark is the same colour. It spells agony, it tells him of pain beyond his comprehension. He waits and <em> waits </em> for it to change. When it changes, he wishes it hadn’t.</p><p>It disappears. His arm shows nothing but tanned skin. No colour. Not even a single band. He stares for the rest of the night in the hopes of something, anything. </p><p>Jeremy’s mark doesn’t reappear for days.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jean doesn’t remember much of his winter break.</p><p>He remembers <em> arrêtez, s’il vous plaît, mon maître</em>. </p><p>He remembers <em> I can’t, please</em>.</p><p>He remembers that his wrist is sky blue. It reminds him of freedom. It reminds him of the hopefulness that comes with being outside, under a clear sky, nowhere and everywhere to go. It reminds him, in its clarity, of hoping for something until it’s the only thing he can think about.</p><p>What does his soulmate have to be hopeful about?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Winter break is hard. It’s not because of the colours. Rather, it’s not <em> entirely </em> because of the colours. Jeremy’s arm fluctuates between pure white, blood red, and… nothing. Just his own tanned skin. It’s been so long since that was a thing. Honestly, he doesn’t know if he prefers it. Maybe he does, but the problem with the lack of colour is that it’s like static down a phone line. He can’t work out whether the person on the other end is dead, or just breathing. All he can do is hope. Hope in the face of everything to the contrary that his soulmate is still there. For the first few days he wears long sleeves, even though the winter is relatively warm and he’s suffering a little bit because of it. He lasts until Wednesday, and then he realises that at some point he has to face facts. His arm is white when he wakes up. It’s white for hours. He doesn’t know how anyone can possibly hurt for so long without dying, but it stays white. Keeps its colour. Unfortunately, that means that when he goes downstairs in search of coffee, his mom turns around with a sweet smile, sees him in his tank top, and nearly drops her own cup.</p><p>“Jeremy.” He pauses over the coffee machine, pressing his lips tightly together while his face is turned away so she can’t see.</p><p>“Sí.” </p><p>“Sit, cariño, let me see.”</p><p>He thinks about protesting, but Maritsa is like a dog with a bone when she gets hold of something, and no more so than when that something is clearly affecting one of her kids. So he scoops up his mug, takes it over to the table and sinks into a chair that has winter sunlight falling across it. His mark <em> glows </em> in the light. He turns his face away. </p><p>“What does this one mean?” she asks quietly as she takes a seat next to him. </p><p>He blows on his coffee and shrugs. “Pain. I think.”</p><p>There’s no point in mincing words. He knows that. He can’t hide this forever, and his mom knows better than most that his soulmate has a hard life, to say the least. She’s the one he turns to when things are really bad. </p><p>“Mamá, have y’all’s marks ever gone blank?” He stares into the depths of his coffee so he doesn’t have to look at his mother and try to identify what she’s thinking.</p><p>As it turns out, he doesn’t need to look to know how she feels about that question. She sucks in a sharp breath, hissing through her teeth as her fingers tighten around her cup, squeaking on the shiny porcelain. </p><p>“Has yours?” He nods. For a moment they sit in thoughtful silence. Eventually, he turns his gaze up to meet Maritsa’s, bracing himself for the pity he knows he’s going to see. </p><p>“How often?” she asks, tracing her fingertips along Jeremy’s forearm. It’s a nice touch.</p><p>“Like… I don’t know, it started off real irregular, but it’s happened loads in the last couple weeks.” He remembers all the times after the winter banquet, the times when his heart clenched in his chest, when he looked down and there was nothing on his arm, nothing where there should be something. He remembers it all, because it’s hard to forget every single time you’ve thought your soulmate might be dead.</p><p>“You remember what we talked about?” his mother says to him very quietly. “When it first started changing?” Jeremy nods.</p><p>
  <em> If your soulmate dies, the colours fade. </em>
</p><p>But what does it mean when they keep coming back? He knows his mom won’t have the answer to that. He knows it’s never happened to her. His dad is in the next room, he can hear him talking to the two younger girls, so clearly it’s never happened to her. If Jeremy were anyone else, he’d probably be angry about that, but he can’t begrudge his mom her happiness. As far as he’s concerned, his parents deserve it more than anyone else. </p><p>Maritsa rises from the table and cups his face affectionately on her way past him. “It’ll be alright, mi amor. One way or the other.”</p><p>Jeremy nods; it’s all he can do. Next door, he hears laughter, so he picks up his cup of coffee, kisses his mom’s cheek and whispers “gracias” on his way out of the kitchen. He wants to forget for a while. As best he can. He steps into the living room and laughs when the twins yell his name. His sisters are already fourteen. They’re growing up faster than he really expected them to. Gina already says she wants to go to USC. She probably will, eventually. He puts his cup down so he won’t throw coffee across the room, then tackles Elena onto the couch after she pinches his elbow in an attempt to sabotage him. By the time she kicks him onto the floor, cackling and squirming out of his arms and over the back of the couch, he’s laughing as well. He tips his head back against the couch cushions to catch his breath. His heart is just a little lighter than it had been a moment ago.</p><p>His arm is grey now. Jeremy hopes and hopes that it means the pain is over. That his soulmate is at least alive. That they’re going to be okay.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They’re well into summer when the Foxes finally announce that Kevin Day will be playing for them next year. Jeremy has been following every single headline about his move to Palmetto for the past seven months. He doesn’t think this news comes as a surprise, because Kevin grew up on Exy. He’s not just going to stop playing, and even if he’s been dropped by Edgar Allan, any other team in the league would be stupid not to sign him. He does wonder how an injury that traumatic will be healed enough to play on by the time the season starts, but it’s <em> Kevin Day</em>. If anyone can will themselves into healing for the sake of Exy, it’s him.</p><p>Coincidentally, his soulmate spends that summer, for the most part, stressed out and angry. Which means that Jeremy spends half his time thinking about Kevin’s transfer, and the rest of it thinking about his mark. He remembers winter break and the long stretches of time when there was no colour. He remembers, too, the sleepless nights and the skipped meals; his face aching from smiling; feeling, every time the colours returned, like his heart had just started beating again. Without fully realising it, Jeremy’s become accustomed to squashing down his grief and his terror and his stress over his soulmark. He’s become accustomed to distracting himself, to <em> forcing </em>himself into optimism until he sees something at least close to a neutral emotion reflected on his skin, because neutral is better than negative and he celebrates seeing it like anyone else would celebrate their soulmate’s happiness.</p><p>Honestly, he doesn’t know if his soulmate will ever be happy again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Arrêtez, s'il vous plaît, mon maître. - Stop, please, master.</p><p>jean would 100% use the formal 'vous' for riko even in his own head. it's conditioned into him by this point, because even if logically he knows that riko doesn't speak french nor understand it, he's terrified that otherwise one day riko will turn around and make him answer for all the times he used 'tu'.</p><p>since we're into heavy colour symbolism this chapter, pls feel free to ask me if youre not sure ab any of the colours - my head knows but my hands forget to explain</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. what if i'm someone i don't want around</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jeremy knows who his soulmate isn't. He's just still not clear on who it is.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>because i am a FOOL i've taken on aftg bingo with only 1 month until cutoff<br/>please pray for my brain</p><p>title comes from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olGSAVOkkTI"> this song</a> for reasons.</p><p>the only alternate title for this was 'if only neil josten could shut up'</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The news in August that the Ravens have transferred to the southeastern district surprises exactly nobody. Once it came out that Kevin would be playing with the Foxes, it was really only a matter of time before they transferred. Jeremy devours every story he can about it. He remembers wondering about Kevin last year; the cast on Kevin’s left hand matching the phantom ache in his right. He hates that he knows Kevin isn’t his soulmate because nothing about his mark has changed. In the eight months since Kevin left, he’s been wondering whether there’ll be a change (as slim a chance as it was in the first place that Kevin would be his soulmate), and yet his soulmate’s life doesn’t seem to have changed.</p><p>So not Kevin.</p><p>Just like he did in freshman year, just like he always does, he works to put it aside. He focuses on being present and positive. He doesn’t let himself dwell too long on the colours that wash over his arm, because he worries that if he does, he’ll spiral. Thankfully this year he has a new distraction. Being the captain of a team like the Trojans is terrifying, honestly. Much as it helps that they’re the Trojans - and it definitely helps, because they’re all so goddamn <em> nice </em> to him - he’s still thrown in at the deep end. He has to learn fast, but he’s always been a quick learner. He smiles brightly, he takes the help he’s offered, and he worms his way into the affections of every single member of the team. They do well. Really well.</p><p>He’s nervous about their first face to face with the Ravens, though. Edgar Allan have a hell of a reputation and if Jeremy fucks up it’ll definitely put some kind of stain on his captaincy. So, yeah, he’s nervous. He knows they’re going to lose. But his goal, dumb as it sounds, is to not lose too badly. He’s grateful the team is behind that idea. He knows they’ll play their best, but he also knows that the Trojans are good enough that Edgar Allan will play their best too. So with a fair amount of anxiety going on in his head, he doesn’t sleep more than a few hours the night before they play the Ravens. Which means he wakes up with a head full of cotton and more regret than he’s ever had in his life. That’ll do wonders for his game.</p><p>He takes a risk and runs to court that afternoon, hoping it’ll clear his head and wake him up without draining his energy. His arm is deep forest green; it tells him that his soulmate is focused just as clearly as the negative colours had spoken of their anguish. They’re ready for something. There are glimmers of white threading through the mark, but that’s the only other colour he can see. Whatever is so important about today, it’s more important than the usual combination of tension, fear, sadness. After two years of seeing that, on and off, he should really have been used to it. It seems to show up every few days through winter and spring, it lasts maybe two hours, and then it disappears and leaves him wondering if it was real. He’s had the mark since he was twelve, and still it surprises him.</p><p>The colour lasts and lasts, and although he gets a gentle ribbing about the lack of red on game day, people seem to be too keyed up about the game ahead of them to wonder too much about his soulmark. Jeremy himself can hardly think about it; when he can’t even stand still, it’s difficult to worry about the colour of his arm. He can’t afford to be distracted by it. So probably it’s a good thing that it’s green, even if that’s not the green he wants so desperately to see again.</p><p>He’s very glad they’re playing at home. He’s glad he doesn’t have to be near Evermore. He’s seen pictures of the place, and he thinks that any court without natural light is one he doesn’t want to be on. He doesn’t really know how the Ravens can handle it, but apparently they do more than alright. “Maybe the sunlight will blind them,” Laila murmurs in his ear as they file onto the court, and he has to work hard to school his expression before he comes face to face with Riko Moriyama. As always, Riko has a poisonous expression on his handsome face; the 1 stands out starkly on his high cheekbone, and although he’s actually a couple of inches shorter than Jeremy, Jeremy feels the weirdest urge to hunch. Which he doesn’t do, because it’s his court and if there’s one person in the world that Jeremy Knox doesn’t like, it's the one standing in front of him, so he’s not going to shrink himself because Riko gives him a Look. He smiles pleasantly, sticks a hand out, and Riko’s answering smile is as sharp and dangerous as a shark’s as he shakes Jeremy’s hand. </p><p>When he turns back to the team, Sara’s nose is wrinkled, and she looks so unimpressed that it takes another unbelievable effort not to snort. He shakes tension and anticipation out of his arms, flexes each hand and rolls his head to each side, taking the opportunity of a moment’s peace before the game starts to take in the lineup on the other side of the court. He’s heard the names before, of course he has, but past knowing them on paper, he doesn’t know the team. He doesn’t know first hand how they play. The weirdest thing is the fact that every face turned towards them is almost blank. Where the Trojans are thrumming with anticipation, shifting from foot to foot, hands twisting around the handles of their racquets, the Ravens are calm. It’s kind of creepy. Riko’s face is the only one that betrays any emotion. Jeremy wishes it wouldn’t.</p><p>He clocks number three a fraction of a second before the whistle. Again, their eyes meet and Jeremy’s knocked a little off kilter, but the guy gives him no sign of feeling the same way. So he shakes it off, grins, and takes off the moment the whistle sounds.</p><p>And because his luck is shitty, he winds up being tailed by the same serious brunette - Moreau, his brain supplies a helpful half minute too late - he’d just been staring at. A brunette who is, he notices almost immediately, more than half a foot taller than him. Even for Jeremy, who’s fast and light on his feet, it’s a fucking nightmare to try to lose his mark. When he does eventually get out of his shadow, he has about a minute to hurl the ball at the goal before Moreau checks him hard enough to knock the air out of him. He hits the ground with a grunt, scrambles to his feet before the whistle can blow to call off his goal, and watches in mild bemusement as the tall backliner takes a moment. It’s not an unwelcome moment, because it means he can catch his breath. His arm (what little of it he can see past his padding) has sparked white, but he’s too keyed up to pay much attention to it. He rubs absently at his shoulder and offers Moreau a breathless grin. “Hey, man, sorry about that.”</p><p>He gets a blank stare and a turned back. Sue him for being nice.</p><p>It really feels like the backliner has it out for him after that. Like that goal was a personal slight, like Jeremy might as well have punched him in the face and called it a day. After the third check, he’s getting sick of it. He knows he’s gonna have bruises up and down his arms tomorrow. He’s gonna be sore, he’s gonna ache, and most of all, he’s gonna be thinking about what the hell he did wrong.</p><p>Which is why he’s surprised when Moreau stops the fourth time round and offers him a hand up. It’s a short moment, and Jeremy clearly stares too long because the brunette scoffs and withdraws his hand again, but it’s a moment of humanity that he didn’t really expect; one that makes him happy to see. And, interestingly, he catches sight of a flash of yellow peeking out from under one of Moreau’s pads, just wriggling up the inside of his forearm out of his glove. He motions to it once he’s back on his feet, swaying just a little after hitting the ground so many times. His own arm has been growing steadily whiter, from what he can tell. He wonders what’s going on. “Hey, nice mark. My favourite colour.”</p><p>He jogs back to the centre of the court, and turns to see Moreau staring after him. His face is completely neutral, but even from a distance Jeremy can see the tension in his shoulders. </p><p><em> Weird guy</em>, he thinks.</p><p>The game is fast-paced and brutal even without Jeremy’s own personal battle going on. More than once he sees a dirty check from one of the Ravens. He’s intensely proud of the fact that his teammates don’t rise to it, they don’t take the bait. They stand up, brush themselves off, and throw themselves back into the game with twice the effort. Every one of them wants to win this. He loses count of how many shots Sara stops from even reaching the goal, but he watches Laila swell with pride every time she cuffs her girlfriend around the back of the neck and knocks their helmets together. He tries, at every turn, to lighten the shadow that settles across Moreau’s face every time they score. Shockingly, it doesn’t work.</p><p>The Trojans win. When Jeremy shakes hands with Jean Moreau, his face bright with happiness, the brunette’s eyes are as haunted as they were at the winter banquet last year. Jeremy’s right hand twinges. “Good game, man. You did great.” Jean swallows and nods. Riko’s hand slides onto the brunette’s arm, separating him and Jeremy, and the Ravens’ captain squeezes until his knuckles whiten before he sends Jean off and follows him without a word.</p><p>Again, Jeremy considers how weird their dynamic is. But, he guesses, if it works it works.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>That night, he sits at his desk and watches his soulmark. He thinks about the white of Riko Moriyama’s knuckles and the white exploding across his arm. For a moment, his mind puts the two together and comes up with the expression on Jean Moreau’s pale face when Riko’s grip had tightened like that. He shakes it off.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Again, the NCAA winter banquet comes around, and again, Jeremy’s arm spells nothing but stress. They’re at Blackwell this time. When the Foxes arrive, he actually notices them. Everyone notices them. It’s hard not to notice Kevin at Andrew Minyard’s side, or Neil Josten, the guy who seems hell bent on making every one of the Ravens his own personal enemy. Jeremy kind of admires it.</p><p>What he doesn’t admire is the once again formidable scene the Ravens make as they step onto the court. It’s just a bit much; the matching outfits, the matching blank faces. Other than Riko’s, as always, which really betrays the temper he’s known for having when he catches sight of the Foxes. It’s unbelievably inappropriate that those two teams end up sharing a table. Not for the first time, Jeremy wonders whether the NCAA actually does care about its teams. If it did, he thinks that the Ravens would be kept well away from the Foxes, considering the backlash over Kevin playing for Palmetto.</p><p>Things are going… fine. Jeremy is anxious and he doesn’t know why, but it’s low-level and it doesn’t ruin his night. Not until he feels a spike of hysteria that actually winds him for a second. A moment later, he hears fast, panicked French from a few tables away, and when he looks over Jean and Kevin are both staring at Neil with horror clear on their faces. He considers getting up, but the flash of terrified red at his wrist when he goes to stand paralyses him for a moment, and by the time he can move again the conversation is over, the Foxes’ coach is standing over Neil, and Jean’s face is turned towards Riko instead as the Foxes stand up and leave the table.</p><p>Jeremy keeps his team away from the inevitable confrontation, but keeps an eye on the two groups when they next meet in the middle of the court. He doesn’t see Riko slip away, but he sees Jean Moreau detach himself from the group, and he knows that wouldn’t happen unless Riko were gone too. Bemused but silent, he watches as Neil slips out of the press of Ravens and Foxes, follows Jean off the court. His shoulder aches faintly and he feels a twist of nerves in his stomach, but he doesn’t think either of those belong to him. He’s just, as always, not sure who they do belong to.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jean hates Neil Josten the second he arrives at Evermore.</p><p>He hates to admit that part of the reason for that is, plain and simple, because Riko’s attention is on Neil. Riko isn’t looking at him except when Neil fucks up, Riko’s attention is fully on his shiny new toy, on Number Four (who, Jean knows, would have been Number Three if Riko had any say in it). It sounds all kinds of stupid and fucked up to be <em> jealous</em>, so he focuses on the rest of the reason; Neil Josten can’t keep his mouth shut. Jean asks him not to get them both killed on his first day and Neil immediately takes that as a challenge. He deliberately pokes at Riko, he pinches and pulls and makes himself a nuisance until Riko snaps, over and over again.</p><p>The problem with this is that Riko’s snapping when it comes to Neil is very different to the way he snaps at Jean. It’s more dangerous. <em> Unhinged</em>. Jean saw it when Kevin left, Jean took the brunt of it when Kevin left, and he’s just as terrified by it now as he was then. The worst part is when Neil is unconscious and it’s Jean and Riko, and Riko is still so angry. He’s not allowed to kill Jean, technically. Jean’s life - and Jean’s death - belongs to Riko’s family, not to Riko himself. It’s a technicality that has saved Jean’s life more than once, because Riko <em> hates </em> Jean’s mark. Jean’s mark is bright and hopeful, and given the opportunity he thinks Riko would love to cut it out of his skin. He can’t, not with where the mark is: it’s too much of a risk.</p><p>But those moments make Jean wonder whether a technicality will be enough to save him this time.</p><p>That thought frightens him, it cuts through to his core and sits like the point of a knife between his ribs, warning him, paralysing him. He doesn’t want to die, not really. He wants to live. And every time Neil Josten rebels, it’s a fraction more weight behind the knife, it’s Riko or the master turning on him with a frenzied look in their eyes and blame falling from their poisonous mouths while Neil slumps in the corner and all Jean can do is bite his tongue and<em> survive. </em></p><p>When it’s over, when he comes back to himself and realises he’s still breathing, his wrist is always a swirl of yellows and blues. It matches the bruises, he thinks dully. The blue will fade as the minutes pass, replaced by the soft, warm yellow he knows so well. One day, he wants to see what that yellow looks like on someone else’s face. He doesn’t think he ever will.</p><p>Neil’s mark is strange. Jean’s only seen it a few times. It traces neatly under the cathedral curve of his ribs, around from his left side and up his sternum to the hollow between his collarbones. It’s big and present, but the most obnoxious thing about it is its colour. Neil loses his tan within the first week; he never sees the sun at Evermore, and there’s only so much their small window can do. But the sweep of colour across his skin somehow manages to be paler than him, paler than Jean even. It’s clean, bright white. It hurts his eyes if he looks too long. He hates it. He hates the white, and more than that he hates when red trickles across it like spilled blood. He’s seen red like it before; he knows it as fear. He knows it as his soulmate’s fear for him, he’s seen it curled around his wrist in his lowest moments, he’s watched it fade into soft yellow, green, a bright blue that reminds him of the sky he so rarely sees. But Neil’s red doesn’t do that. Neil’s red shifts back to white, then back to red again. In the time that Neil is at Evermore, those are the only colours Jean sees on his skin.</p><p>And then. Then, just after Christmas, Neil’s skin clears. It doesn’t lighten up, the colour doesn’t mellow; it disappears. Jean notices it when Neil is changing for practice, eyes half-closed with sleep and yet still sharp when he catches Jean looking. Neil turns away. There should be white or red on his side. There isn’t.</p><p>As Jean passes Neil, dressed before him and anxious to get onto the court before Riko does, he murmurs, “tout va bien?” It’s barely even a breath, the fear of being overheard clutches at his throat and lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, but Neil’s hands still and he turns cool blue eyes up to meet Jean’s.</p><p>“Ce n’est pas la première fois,” he answers just as quietly.</p><p>Jean nods.</p><p>How Neil can be so calm about it, he doesn’t know. In every other respect, Neil is wildly emotional and also an idiot. Neil is Jean’s polar opposite like that. Jean always knows what he’s thinking because his mouth twists or his shoulders hunch or he closes his eyes for a moment too long. And yet Neil doesn’t seem to care that his soulmark has disappeared, that it disappears for days at a time. If Jean’s wrist ever went blank, he thinks he’d lose his mind. </p><p>He doesn’t know whether he hates the colour or the lack of colour more, but in the end it doesn’t matter. Neil leaves Evermore, he escapes just like Kevin did, and he’s very much the worse for wear, but he’s alive and he’s free. Freer than Jean is. Jean watches him limp into the building, lingers outside the airport for a fraction longer than he’s allowed to, just to soak up the winter sun. To imagine for one second that he’s leaving too.</p><p>(On the west coast, Jeremy’s arm burns a fiercely beautiful gold that fades out as fast as it ignites.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tout va bien? - Everything alright?<br/>Ce n'est pas la première fois. - It's not the first time.</p><p>jean hates neil's mark because of its colour. neil's mark is that colour because andrew is suffering at easthaven. what jean doesn't know? the colour of neil's mark matches the colour of jeremy's mark more often than not.<br/>every time neil's mark disappears, jean wonders how he can possibly not be terrified because his own soulmark is so often the only thing that gives him hope of seeing life outside evermore. he thinks he'd lose his mind if it ever disappeared. he doesn't realise that his own soulmate's mark does exactly what neil's does and his own soulmate does exactly what neil does; accepts it and hopes silently that this isn't The Time.</p><p>p.s. andrew's mark is purple while neil is at evermore. purple for defiance. it's a colour he spends a lot of his withdrawal staring at. it's also a colour that's used against him until its meaning twists and warps in his head.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. someone come and save my life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Asking for help is one of the hardest things.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>these last 5 chapters? nothing but exposition. world building.<br/>next chapter? the real shit. see you there.</p><p>chapter title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a-Xfv64uhMI"> this song</a></p><p>alternate titles as always:<br/>1) i wish i hadnt done this<br/>2) bye riko hate you forever xx<br/>3) why is this so goddamn long</p><p>a warning: jean gets the unholy shit beaten out of him. proceed with caution, this was not good for my brain to write.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jean has never seen this. In his years at Evermore, he’s never seen Riko whipped up into the kind of fury he unleashes the day his father dies. He sends a message to Palmetto the moment the news gets to him, because it reaches him before Riko does, and that means he has the time to finally reach out for help. He just doesn’t know if help will arrive in time. Maybe he’s too late. It would be ironic, he thinks as he sits in their room, shaking and listening for Riko’s footsteps, if the one time he breaks down and asks for salvation is the time that kills him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>There’s been something brewing for a while now. Jeremy’s arm has been bright sky blue on and off for a couple of months, as if someone had handed his soulmate the possibility of an escape that they still aren’t taking. It’s so nice to see that he refuses to consider what they’re escaping from. He’ll damn well take what he can get, and project his own hope right back onto his soulmate’s skin. They deserve to see the effect of their happiness as well as their anguish.</p><p>Things come to a head in March.</p><p>Laila and Sara come to his room just as his phone buzzes with an alert. The absolute last thing he expects to see is Kengo Moriyama’s photograph, and his heart stops as he reads the stub of the article attached. He doesn’t know a lot about Kengo, admittedly; Tetsuji is much more on his radar. He does know that this is Riko’s father on his screen. He can see it in the cruel lines of his face, the pinched mouth and angry eyes. He can see the Ravens’ coach, too. Family resemblances are strong in the Moriyama family, clearly. He turns his phone towards the girls, his eyebrows raised, and they snort and nod. No one, it has to be said, feels particularly sorry for Riko. The guy has never once managed to ingratiate himself. </p><p>They don’t spare Kengo or Tetsuji or Riko Moriyama another thought. Never let it be said that Jeremy Knox doesn’t hate anyone; he does, but he refuses to dwell on it. There’s no point thinking about how spectacularly insufferable he finds the Raven captain, he’d rather just accept that they’ll never braid one another’s hair at a slumber party and move on. So he, Laila, and Sara drop by the nearest liquor store and treat themselves to a not-quite-celebratory few drinks and a horror movie that’s so bad none of them even know the main character’s name. Jeremy wears a sweater and opens all the windows just so he doesn’t have to see the anxiety swallowing up every inch of his arm. They drink and they whoop whenever blood sprays across the screen and Jeremy ignores the memory of every time his arm has gone white.</p><p>When Jeremy’s mark first appeared, it had hurt. He still remembers the dull ache up his arm and across his chest, like he’d worked his muscles too hard. The pain that sinks its claws into him about twenty minutes before the final credits is nothing like that. This is a wildfire. It’s the weight of billions of pounds of rock bearing down on him. It’s his skin being slowly, methodically, peeled away from the muscle underneath while he can do nothing but lie there and feel every cut of the knife. His mark is pure white again, so painful that he hurts with it. It’s like there’s a hand in his stomach that’s just squeezing, pulling randomly, churning his insides until he sprints to the bathroom and vomits again and again. It’s <em>blinding agony</em> that makes him plead out loud for it to stop.</p><p>When he looks down, the colour is bleeding out of its usual constraints. Tendrils of colour are crawling their way up his neck and down across his hand. He can’t begin to fucking <em>fathom</em> how much pain his soulmate has to be in; it’s tipped everything over a line that he doesn’t think either of them can return to. Every inch of skin that whitens burns. He’s shaking so violently he can’t hold the water bottle Laila passes to him. It takes both of them to coax him onto his feet and over to the girls’ bed, and he doesn’t realise until Laila swipes her fingertips gently under his eyes that he’s crying. When he realises, he wonders how he could ever have not noticed. Every sob tears out of his chest like it’s trying to take his heart along for the ride; he presses his trembling hands over where it beats, rabbit-fast, under his ribs, just to make sure it’s still there. He can feel the wrench as he cries and tries to breathe and <em>fails at breathing</em> because it hurts so goddamn much.</p><p><em>Please, please stop</em>, he begs, he weeps, <em>please</em>, and he doesn’t know who the hell he’s talking to and he can’t say it to them even if he wanted to because they’re not there, they’re <em>torturing</em> his soulmate. He doesn’t know what to do; he can’t smile, even though he knows exactly what colour anguish and pain looks like and he knows that his soulmate’s skin will be awash with those exact colours. There’s no smile to cover this, and he can’t remember what one feels like, his brain is too foggy. There’s too much pain. Even the resilient part of Jeremy, the optimistic part that has always managed to coax his mouth into some kind of expression of happiness or at least hope, has been completely overshadowed by the all-encompassing horror. He can’t even try to project something his soulmate can hold onto. It’s like every time before, he was just training for this moment. Now, at the final hurdle, he’s fallen. He’s failed.</p><p>He has absolutely no idea how long he’s there. How long he lies, alternating between being curled in a ball to shield himself from phantom blows, leaning off the edge of the bed retching uselessly, and flat on his back trying desperately to catch just one lungful of air. Laila and Sara are silent and watchful, he knows that almost for sure. They’re definitely there; if they speak he doesn’t hear them. He feels gentle hands smoothing his hair off his face, he sees them exchanging glances occasionally. A finger of white creeps onto his cheek and he cries out, and a second later there’s a cool hand pressed against it like an ice pack to a sprain. It quiets him for a minute. He’ll take anything he can get.</p><p>At some point, Jeremy sheds his sweater. It doesn’t help as much as he’d hoped, because without fabric touching the mark the pain is <em>fractionally</em> less, but now he can see how much pain his soulmate is in and it’s agonising. His heart is breaking slowly, so slowly. His sobs turn to silent crying, the occasional hitched breath. Soft, light blue trickles from the hollow of his collarbone down his upper arm, like his throat’s been cut and it’s washing down his body, and when he sees it it’s so quiet in the room that he thinks he hears his heart crack for good. He knows how to recognise hope when he sees it; his soulmate is hopeful, and in the face of so much pain Jeremy can only think that he’s praying for it to end. </p><p>Then it ends.</p><p>It really, truly ends. It doesn’t fade away, the white isn’t replaced by awful, staticky grey. It just… vanishes. They’re dead. Jeremy’s sure of it, as sure as he is of his own name. His soulmate is dead and the last thing he did for them was fail.</p><p>An ugly noise rips out of his mouth; as one, Laila and Sara reach for him. He doesn’t even feel them touch him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Waking up the next day is agony. To be more specific, he doesn’t really feel like he wakes up. He sort of just stops sleeping, if even that’s the right word for the unconsciousness he’d slipped into. Jeremy has Sara on one side, her hand linked loosely with his, and Laila on the other, head nuzzled against his shoulder. He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look down. If he sees nothing again, he thinks he might lose his mind. Just a couple of minutes, he tells himself, closing his eyes again. He doesn’t reopen them until he feels Laila stir at his side, her fingers sliding into his palm when she notices how shallow his breathing is. “Jer,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper, eyes still closed. </p><p>Jeremy rolls his head to one side and bumps his nose into her hair with a hum.</p><p>“How do you feel?” she asks after a moment of comfortable silence. He thinks about tensing up, but he hurts too much. Like he’s practiced for sixteen solid hours. Like he’s blown his arms out.</p><p>“Shitty.”</p><p>She nods thoughtfully and nuzzles her cheek against his shoulder again, settling back in. “I get that. I remember.” </p><p>He’s never asked about the night her mark vanished, and he doesn’t want to ask now. “How can you talk about it?”</p><p>“It was better for them.” Laila sighs sadly. “That much pain, Jer, it’s… more than anyone can take. You’re not supposed to be able to <em>feel</em> their feelings.”</p><p>He knows this objectively, of course he does, but the sting when she reminds him of it nearly takes his breath away. He scrunches his eyes just a little more tightly closed, remembering the white-hot agony and the stabbing pain in his chest when it had disappeared completely.</p><p>“I know how much it hurts when it first happens,” she continues gently. “But, like, I just have to remind myself that it’s better. It was better for yours. You said blue meant hope, right? So they--” she hesitates for a second, “I guess they wanted it to happen. They were fine with it. Sometimes it’s better than surviving yet again.”</p><p>He doesn’t really know he’s crying again until she tips her head up and wipes his face. It’s impossible to explain that no, there’s no way that’s true. That after how many times he saw defiance or anger shimmer across his skin, he knows this wasn’t what his soulmate really wanted. They wanted to live. To at least outlive whoever hurt them. And they couldn’t.</p><p>The bed shifts next to him as Laila finally sits up, stretching until her shoulders crack and sighing happily when they finally do. The sheets rustle, she turns towards him, and then she goes quiet again. “What?” he says after what has to be about thirty seconds of silence. Her fingertips brush against the inside of his forearm so lightly he almost misses it.</p><p>“Open your eyes.”</p><p>He shakes his head. What’s the point, right?</p><p>“Jeremy, seriously, <em>look</em>.” </p><p>“<em>What</em>, Laila?” He feels her fingers again and reluctantly blinks his eyes open, letting go of Sara to prop himself up on the other elbow. She points to the crook of his elbow, her eyes wide and teeth sunk into her lower lip. </p><p>It would be almost imperceptible if they weren’t looking for it. In the shadow where his arm bends, there’s a ribbon of deep blue, so dark it’s almost black. It’s the length of his pinky finger, and it traces the vein that starts down the inside of his forearm, fading into absolutely nothing before it even really gets going. He’s never seen anything so perfect. He’s never cared less about seeing colour again. Or, no, it’s not that he doesn’t care. He’s just… having trouble. He can’t quite reconcile last night with now. It feels like the time he’d crashed his bike into a reversing car when he was a kid and broke his wrist. He’s numb; he thinks he hurts, but he can’t really register the hurt as being either his or not. It’s just there. His head is stuffed with cotton, his eyes are raw and puffy, he’s exhausted. He knows all of that in theory, which is lucky, because he doesn’t think he can feel it. Logic just dictates that he can’t feel all of it <em>because</em> of all of it. <em>Because</em> his head is nothing but cotton wool, <em>because</em> his eyes hurt from grief and tiredness, <em>because</em> last night’s pain has wiped him out and not even sleep can bring him back online. He’s zoned out enough that it takes a few minutes to recognise the colour for what it is. It’s proof that last night wasn’t the end. It’s proof that there’s still someone out there.</p><p>That’s when he really realises that his soulmate is a <em>survivor.</em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>I have to go back.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jeremy’s arm is sore for days. It hurts to hold his racquet, it hurts to do anything, as if he’s overworked himself and his muscles are reminding him of it. But worse than that, worse than the strange pain with no source (had he really been that tense? is this what his soulmate feels like? is it even possible to feel his soulmate’s own pain?) is the dread that still encroaches, that fills every corner of his mind with the feeling that something bad is going to happen. That the other shoe is going to drop. His mark has shrunk after its cancerous growth the other night, it’s returned to his arm, and he’s grateful, sure, but it’s also weird. He can’t remember if that really is how it used to be, because it feels like <em>everything</em> has changed. His soulmate has gone through something that very few people have. Somewhere out there, he thinks, they might be alone, and he knows the hopelessness they feel because the only colour on his skin is disappointment.</p><p>It’s the disappointment his soulmate feels when they discover that they’re still alive.</p><p>The thought Jeremy can’t let go of is the one that worms its way into his head and sits there like an awful, agonising tumour; it’s the one that asks how his soulmate will ever recover from this? He spends a full week of sleepless nights thinking about that question. He cycles between sadness and anger and hopelessness, and always lands on determination; there’s no way Jeremy Knox won’t do everything in his power to find and help the person on the other end of this link he has. He won’t let them hurt like that again. They’re going to live and Jeremy’s going to be there, he’s going to fucking help them every step of the way.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>His mark blazes with hope and anger and determination. It’s so bright it feels like it shines through the sleeves he pulls over his hands, through the cast encasing his arm from wrist to elbow. </p><p>Renee says “we’re not going to let you suffer any more, Jean,” and it feels like someone else’s words.</p><p>She looks at the mark he refuses to. Every time he looks at it, he’s reminded of the sight of his hand, painted bone-white and dripping with his own blood until he can’t even see his mark anymore past the red.</p><p>He sees when she realises exactly what is stopping him from going back. It’s not Kevin’s pleading.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When Kevin says he has a backliner in need of a team, Jeremy jumps at the chance before he even knows the name. He jumps because he wants to help someone, particularly when the memory of that night a few weeks ago is still painfully fresh in his mind, and because he respects Kevin Day a lot. If he can help he sure as hell will. Jean Moreau is the <em>last</em> name he expects to be given, though. He remembers every encounter he’s had with Jean Moreau; the guy is pure Raven from what he can tell. The last person he’d expect to be leaving Edgar Allan. Unsurprisingly - or maybe it is surprising, given their history - Kevin makes a hell of a case, as if he’s worried Jeremy is going to say no. Jeremy’s not 100% sure <em>how</em> he could say no even if he wanted to, but when Kevin looks so concerned, he nods before he can even think about how an ex-Raven will factor into their lineup. There’s so much more to work out, of course there is, but Jeremy will do everything in his power to make sure it goes well. To make sure that Jean settles in and does well. The relief on Kevin’s face when he agrees so easily only serves to make him more sure of his decision, and he’s struck by the sheer amount of trust Kevin puts into him. It puts Jeremy in a good mood that not even Dan Wilds telling him off for their revised lineup can dampen. </p><p>He’s excited about the new lineup, anyway. Anything that makes them play harder, he wants to do. Or at least try. It’s not about to become a regular thing, because the <em>complaining</em> was unbelievable. He refuses to put himself through it again. This is just an experiment. Sure, they probably shouldn’t experiment when they’re aiming for the finals, but semi-stupid ideas like that are kind of Jeremy’s charm. He doesn’t think he can play a full game, but he’ll be interested to see whether that’s true. He leaves the Foxhole Court with a smile on his face, turning his face into watery spring sunlight on his way across the parking lot. He likes Palmetto. He likes the atmosphere buzzing around the court when they file back in a few hours later. He likes the looks on the Foxes’ faces. Other than Andrew, their faces are almost uniformly set in grim determination. He doesn’t know if any of them really believe they’ll beat the Trojans, but looking at them like that, he thinks they have more than a fighting chance. Especially considering the fact that Andrew, for all that his face radiates indifference, is leaning forwards slightly, perched on his tiptoes as if he’s coiled to strike the second the ball comes near him.</p><p>It’s half a surprise and half really not that the Trojans lose.</p><p>Jeremy is so fucking out of breath he thinks he might die. His legs are shaking faintly and he leans on his racquet as Kevin pulls his helmet off with a grin that almost looks sincere. Laila drags herself out of her goal and over to him, draping herself over him just to force him to take some of the weight of her goalie pads as payback for making her do this. He bumps his fist against Kevin’s before Kevin can offer to shake hands with him, laughing at the disgusted look on the brunette’s face, and jerks his chin towards the rest of the Foxes. “You guys knocked it outta the park,” he tells Kevin as he slings an arm around Laila’s shoulders and knocks their helmets together. “You deserved that win.” He’s bummed not to reach the final, of course he is, but he’s so proud of his team, for actually running with his crazy idea, and of their opponents. In one season the Foxes have pulled it together like no one expected. He’s fine with sending them forward to take on the Ravens.</p><p>Plus the afterparty is just as good when they lose. Maybe better, because they’re not thinking about how pummelled they’re about to get in the final.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
Jeremy will never forget the exact moment he finds out Riko Moriyama is dead.</p><p>It’s not just because of the most momentous double whammy of news the Exy community has seen since Kevin broke his hand; the Ravens are beaten (by the <em>Foxes</em>) and Riko turns up dead not a couple hours after. It’s because when the news breaks, really breaks, his arm explodes with colour that makes him dizzy to see, makes his head ache and his eyes burn until he has to look away. It’s overwhelming and confusing. He doesn’t understand it. He knows now, as if he hadn’t had a very faint suspicion before, that his soulmate knows or plays Exy. There’s no way they don’t, not with a reaction like that. He remembers the colour of his arm when Kevin had been hurt, when he’d transferred. This person knows the sport and follows it enough to be invested, he’s sure of it.</p><p>(It doesn’t narrow things down all that much, but it does make him think that maybe he’s a little more likely to find them just by being recognised if they were to walk past one another.)</p><p>But right now. Right now he isn’t thinking about that. There’s no <em>way</em> he can think about that when the world is losing its mind over the future of Exy. As if Riko was the only good player out there. It’s weird to think what things must be like at Evermore right now; how Jean Moreau feels, particularly. His tattoo matches Riko’s, after all. Unlike Neil or Kevin, Jean was still there. He was close to Riko. This has to be hitting him hard. If he knew how, Jeremy would probably try to get in touch, but he doesn’t and even if he did, he doesn’t know the guy that well. He can’t remember Jean saying even one word to him, honestly. Plus, he figures, the Foxes can do a better job than he can of making sure Jean is alright. He’s been with them a month or so now, he’s bound to be close with at least Kevin.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The guy sitting in front of Jeremy is not the one he remembers on the Exy court. This version of Jean Moreau, the Ravens’ number three, is hollow. He’s empty. The sleeves of his sweater are pulled over his hands; one of them has a cast again. His hair has grown out a lot, but that can’t disguise the handfuls that are missing in some places. His nose has always been crooked, but the bruises around his eyes now only accentuate its shape. Every time he takes too deep a breath, he flinches almost imperceptibly. And yet still his chin is raised, his mouth set in a defiant line, and he levels a look at Jeremy that could freeze hell. Jeremy grins and doesn’t offer his hand to shake.</p><p>Coach Rheman disappears almost immediately, vanishing into the kitchen of the small house they’ve found themselves in. The Foxes’ coach and nurse go with him, and then it’s just Jeremy, Jean, and a crushing silence. They both know that Jean’s future at USC is being discussed. Jeremy knows he’ll fight to have Jean on the team, but he also knows that he probably won’t have to. Rheman’s seen what Jean can do, after all, not least because he’s watched Jeremy crash to the floor multiple times because of Jean and Jean alone. He’s seen how many of Jeremy’s shots Jean has managed to stop without seeming to try. They’re just both hoping that Jean’s spirit hasn’t been beaten out of him; going on the filthy look Jean is giving him, Jeremy thinks it probably hasn’t been.</p><p>He twitches the sleeves of his own sweater downwards, covering his hands just the same way Jean has, and perches lightly on the edge of the nearest end table. They don’t speak to each other. Just sit in quiet silence. The longer Jeremy is there without moving, the more Jean relaxes. It’s incremental, it’s painfully slow, but Jeremy sees it because he’s looking for it. He watches Jean ease into having company, and thinks about all the times he’s seen the Ravens. He never sees one of them alone. Even on the court, when they’re not in play they gravitate towards one another. It reminds him of the snide comments they once made about a hive mind. Maybe that wasn’t so far off the truth.</p><p>It takes a good 45 minutes before the coaches return, conspicuously loud on their way down the hall so that they won’t startle Jean or Jeremy. The first movement Jeremy has seen from Jean comes when they appear in the doorway; his eyes flicker away from Jeremy’s face and up, and he eyes the two men suspiciously. While Rheman halts, clearly not used to the attitude, Wymack doesn’t. He raises an eyebrow back at Jean, unimpressed, and shakes his head. “Do you still <em>want</em> to go to California?” It’s so blunt that even Jeremy is surprised. By the look on Jean’s face, he wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting someone to ask him what he wanted to do. Maybe he doesn’t know what he wants to do. Jeremy remembers the announcement he’d made a good few weeks ago about Jean’s transfer, before he’d even spoken to Jean himself. He chews at his lower lip, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table until he gets three matching glares demanding he stop.</p><p>“I want to play,” Jean answers sullenly; the neat American accent Jeremy remembers is gone. He finds he prefers this accent. When Jean glances back at him, he smiles, flashes a thumbs up, and earns a faintly irritated look for it. Worth it, if he’s being honest.</p><p>“Cool. Sounds like it’s settled, then,” Jeremy says as he straightens up and brushes his jeans off. Wymack snorts and rolls his eyes, pointing a finger at Jean.</p><p>“You change your mind, you tell me.” Jean shrugs, manages to wave it off without actually moving. Before anyone else can speak, Jeremy dives in again. </p><p>“See you in August, Jean. Coach, we should let him chill now.” Rheman looks like he wants to talk to Wymack more, but Jeremy can see something in Jean’s face that suggests he’s tired of being on edge. So he convinces the two of them to just <em>call each other</em>, for God’s sake, and now he offers Jean his hand. “Seriously. I’ll give Renee my number. Not saying you have to use it, but if you have any questions, let me know. Okay?” </p><p>Jean clasps his hand, his knuckles white as his grip tightens, and doesn’t nod. Awesome. Grey eyes drop to their hands and linger for a second, and when Jeremy looks down he sighs; the sleeve of his sweater has shifted a little. His wrist is grey, too. It has been for a couple weeks now. He spends a lot of time hoping the colour will change and the rest of the time afraid that it will just fade. “Guess they’re having a rough day,” he says lightly, tugging his sleeve back down. Jean’s gaze darts upwards to meet his own, his eyes cool and silver and emotionless. It takes some effort not to shiver. He can feel Jean track him until he’s out of the room and out of sight, stare burning into the back of his neck. Again, he thinks to himself, <em>weird guy</em>, but he understands it a little better.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>jean sees his mark vanish under the blood. when he's unconscious, riko wipes a patch of skin clean and sees the colours of pain and anguish tracing over the back of jean's hand. the only thing he says is <em>good</em>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. go out and start again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jean hates California immediately. He also hates Jeremy Knox.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the actual title is from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4povfmX144">this song</a><br/>but as far as alternate titles go:<br/>1) ugh jean deserves this<br/>2) l'appel du vide babey<br/>a disclaimer: i dont know shit about the us college dorm system and id like to keep it that way<br/>so call any discrepancies artistic license and lets all move on luvs xx</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stepping off the plane into the California sun is one of the most horrifying things Jean has ever done. Not because it’s hot (although it is fucking hot, it’s August and the sun is only just starting to tip over the horizon), but because of everything that comes with leaving Palmetto behind, getting further and further from West Virginia. Palmetto had meant a lot of things for him; it had meant agony and night terrors and days of sleepless dissociation, but mostly it had reminded him that he truly is alone now. He doesn’t have Riko or his team to fall back on. The Trojans aren’t his team. The whole thing feels like some kind of sick joke, he reflects as he collects his bags, like Riko’s going to round the next corner, like the master is waiting for him outside. He feels the cold floor underneath his chest, he feels a neat, thin cane land against his shoulder blades, over and over again, as he bites his lips tightly together and his eyes scrunch shut. When he steps into the huge arrivals hall, he’s breathing heavily, his skin feels too tight, and his face is either burning pink or deathly white but he can’t tell which. Jeremy Knox bounces up onto his feet with a smile that’s all white teeth and eyes that crinkle at the corners. His grin has no danger or malice in it. Jean is disarmed by it. His steps falter, and then Jeremy is by his side, coaxing the bags out of his hands with a blindingly bright greeting. </p><p>Jean hates him immediately.</p><p>Jeremy has a southern drawl, though his ‘r’s roll softly, and he smiles at Jean like Jean is the only person he wants to see. His hair is chaotic, even though it’s tucked haphazardly into a cap twisted the wrong way round. He’s wearing a stupid <em> tank top </em> and Jean struggles not to roll his eyes as he takes in that particular insult. It frustrates him to no end that even though he dislikes the kind of person Jeremy is on sight, he feels at ease with him. Like he’s coming home and meeting an old friend after years apart. Jeremy is approachable, he’s easy to like; Jean doesn’t trust it for a second. He spends the car ride back to the USC campus in sullen silence that Jeremy fills by chattering about sweet fucking nothing. Jean doesn’t pay attention to his words. He listens to the sound of Jeremy’s voice.</p><p>It’s weird, he reflects, that Jeremy’s arm is that colour. It’s grey, like static on an old tv, like the sky with no sun, like a street with no one around. He’s not thinking too hard about it (except he is) and he doesn’t care about it (but he is curious). His own soulmark is weird too. It reminds him of the sky before a thunderstorm; an odd combination of grey and green, kind of threatening but mostly just anxious. He pulls his sleeve over his hand even though outside, he knows, it’s way too hot for long sleeves. Jeremy reaches over to flick the air on without even pausing in his one-sided conversation. He doesn’t seem to care that Jean isn’t responding to a single thing he says. Jean’s waiting for the moment when that changes.</p><p>He’s waiting for Jeremy’s hand to twist meanly into his hair, for Jeremy to snap at him, to demand to hear the last thing he said. For Jeremy to slap him when he can’t repeat it back, because he <em> hasn’t </em> been listening, he doesn’t have the space in his brain to listen. It’s just white noise. He stares blindly out of the window and doesn’t take in anything flashing past his eyes or anything Jeremy says. The only thing he’s aware of, hyper aware of, is Jeremy’s body language. So he can see when it changes.</p><p>It doesn’t change. Jeremy stays relaxed and content. Somehow that’s more unnerving.</p>
<hr/><p>Jeremy is kind of used to talking to himself. Like, not in a sad way, but he talks to himself all the time. Even when there isn’t a relative stranger silent and sullen in the seat next to him. Maybe sullen isn’t the right word for it, when Jean is clearly overwhelmed, afraid, angry, unsettled, when there are scars and rows of stitches criss-crossing his face, his hair has been cut but it still doesn’t quite disguise where there were bald patches both from Riko’s cruel hands and from the patching up he’d needed under his hair. He also very clearly isn’t listening to him, which is absolutely fine, because Jeremy doesn’t really know what he’s saying. He’s just talking to fill in the gaps. If Jean doesn’t respond, it doesn’t matter.</p><p>By the time they park outside the dorms, his throat is dry and he’s ended up telling Jean about his sisters’ plans after their high school graduation in five years. He’s two seconds from launching into stories about his own high school, so it’s probably good that he doesn’t have the chance. He cuts the engine and sits quietly for as long as he can bear - until it starts to bear down on his shoulders and it gets too hot in the car. His throat clicks dryly when he opens his mouth again, but he <em> has </em> to talk or he doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do with himself. “Okay, Jean, I’m guessing you’ve figured out this is where you’ll be staying,” even though Jean’s eyes are blank and Jeremy would put good money on him <em> not </em> knowing, so he continues, “Kevin, uh, said you wouldn’t be used to being alone so you’ll be with me if that’s cool. Is that cool? Because we can work out a transfer or something.” Jean, naturally, doesn’t seem to register anything he’s just said.</p><p>“Jean? Are you coming?” Jean doesn’t even look at him. He blinks, then shrugs and climbs out of the car. He can at least unload Jean’s bag. Except that when it’s on the asphalt and he’s standing there waiting, Jean’s still sitting in the car. Still staring out of the window. Jeremy taps very quietly on his window, confusion settling onto his face. “Jean. Look at me, dude,” he calls gently, and that’s what prompts the first movement he’s seen Jean make in a good 45 minutes. Jean’s eyes flicker up to his face; they’re so cool and hollow Jeremy kinda wishes they hadn’t. He moves to open the door, expecting that to nudge Jean into acting, but it’s not until it actually opens that Jean moves. He flinches backwards so violently the car shakes, his arms coming up automatically to cover his face, and Jeremy <em> nearly </em> misses the noise he makes when the motions pull at his stitches.</p><p>He moves away from the car, hands raised, and lets Jean uncurl, come back to himself, and step out into the sun on his own terms. “I’m really sorry,” he starts, once Jean’s door is closed. He gets a hate-filled look for it. “Jean, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you, I didn’t think--”</p><p>“I’m fine.” Jean’s voice is rough, his accent is heavy, and again his gaze is blank when he looks at Jeremy. </p><p>All Jeremy can do is nod, nostrils narrowing to slits as he inhales very calmly through his nose, clamps down on the guilt and pity and eases the door closed once Jean is out of the car and blinking in the sunlight.</p><p>“So. Obviously these are the dorms.” An expansive sweep of his arm takes in the face of the building in front of them; light red brick, big, uniformly spaced windows, bland and modern and beige. As Jean stares at it, eyes scrunched against the glare of the sun, Jeremy feels like he’s taking in every single window.</p><p>He clears his throat a little awkwardly after a minute of silence, fishing in his pocket to pull out a set of keys. “Anyway, uh… These are yours.”</p><p>He really doesn’t expect something that simple to cause the reaction it does. For the first time, the <em> nothing </em> in Jean’s eyes is replaced by something. He doesn’t reach out to take the keys - Jeremy has to hold them out by their slightly too-big Trojans keychain before Jean opens one hand - but once Jeremy drops them into his palm, his fingers curl, one by one, painstaking and slow as he turns his head to give Jeremy a Look. Not even Jean could say what the look means, clearly, but the point is that it’s not just a blank stare and Jeremy is clinging to that. He gestures to Jean’s hand and pulls his own keys out to explain them to him.</p><p>“Building, room, court. Your student ID gets you into the gym. We’ll go get that later, if that’s cool.” Jean doesn’t nod. Jeremy doesn’t expect him to. The keys stay clenched in his hand as Jeremy moves to pick up the single bag Jean brought with him. Jean’s throat clicks dryly as he opens his mouth to protest and Jeremy shakes his head, gesturing to his plastered hand. “I got it. C’mon.”</p><p>He senses rather than hears Jean behind him, tall and silent at his shoulder, and internally he sighs. It’s weirder than he’d expected it to be, seeing Jean Moreau in California. He just looks displaced, he looks even more uncomfortable than he had at Palmetto. He’s so pale and it makes the tattoo on his face stand out even more starkly. Because it’s August in LA and he has his sleeves pulled over his hands, when Jeremy pulls the door open and steps to the side to let Jean in, there’s a faint sheen of sweat on Jean’s thin face that Jeremy doesn’t think he’s even aware of. The cool air radiating out of the building makes Jean shiver despite his sweater, but he steps inside gamely as if that hadn’t just happened.</p><p>Jeremy points him towards the elevator, but yet again it’s not until he goes ahead that Jean makes a move in that direction. As if he can’t go without following. He gets it, he does, but it also spooks him, because he can’t help but feel that when he makes a misstep, Jean will make the same one if he’s following too closely. There’s something awful about having that kind of control over someone else’s life. </p><p>It’s hard not to notice, when they step into the elevator, the way Jean tenses up. His face is the same; it betrays exactly nothing, but his shoulders stiffen, hunch a little, as if his fight or flight is triggered the moment the doors sweep closed and cut them off from the daylight. Jeremy casts around uselessly for something to say that’ll lighten the mood and comes up blank, so he just stands there in awkward silence, chewing the inside of his cheek as Jean avoids looking at him. It makes his skin crawl, and the wave of relief that sweeps over him when the doors open again just about knocks him over.</p><p>“Okay, upperclassmen are up here. The others are on the floor below,” he explains brightly as he directs Jean down the hallway to the door at the end. “The second key I showed you opens our door. You’re sharing with me, like I said.” His voice pitches up at the end of the sentence. He pauses at the door and glances at Jean when he gets no response.</p><p>Again Jean doesn’t answer, but Jeremy isn’t offended by it. He takes it as silent agreement, at least for the time being, because he wants to put the bag down, and unlocks their room to let Jean in. This time the brunette goes ahead of him, stepping into their small kitchen-living area and stopping dead in his tracks so that Jeremy has to <em> slide </em> past him to get inside and put his bag down. He closes the door behind them, goes to crack open one of the large windows, then turns to face Jean, who hasn’t even moved. His grey eyes are fixed on the sunlight streaming in and across the floor like it’s the first time he’s even seen the sun.</p><p>“Jean?”</p><p>Nothing. Jeremy presses his lips tightly together and grabs Jean’s bag again to take it into the shared bedroom. This time, Jean follows him. It’s like he’s aware enough of his surroundings to know when he’s alone again or when his brain perceives a threat, even if that’s the upper limit of his consciousness. They both stand in the doorway of their room, and Jeremy looks around through fresh eyes now that Jean is with him. </p><p>One side of the room is very obviously unoccupied. The bed isn’t quite flush against the wall after he’d pushed it back into place that morning; they’d been pushed together with one sheet over them to feign a double, because Jeremy enjoys having his space. The wall is bare, just the outlines of the previous occupant’s photos and posters showing up in slightly lighter paint. The desk on the opposite wall to the bed has nothing on it except a folded piece of red fabric that Jean doesn’t even look at. A window spills light across the neatly made bed, and it bounces off the red bedding, bathing the walls in warmth. Jeremy brought spares of just about everything when he moved back to school this summer; unfortunately, his supplies were a little limited, so Jean’s bed has Trojans-branded everything on it. His sisters have a terrible sense of humour and he’s just sentimental enough to have never thrown the sheets out.</p><p>The other side of the room, in stark contrast, is a mess. He’d managed a panicky tidying up session before he’d had to head to the airport; sadly all that seems to have achieved is a jumble of his clothes strewn over his bed, a riot of colours and patterns that are dazzlingly bright in the sunny room. His walls are covered with photos, photos of himself and of his friends and his family - the dogs soaking wet and grinning in early summer sun, his sisters pressing twin kisses to his cheeks while he beams, him and the girls at the last winter banquet. He pales when he remembers the last one, but it’s too late to take it down. Jean’s eyes sweep over the photos, then away again as if he hasn’t even noticed.</p><p>“Um… So the bed that’s not covered with shit is yours, obviously. Sorry about the sheets, I didn’t know if you had your own but I figured it might be nice to have it all made up and ready if you wanna take a nap or something.” There’s a possibility he’s rambling. Make that a definite, he amends in his head when Jean slides a glance towards him. Jean doesn’t say anything, but then again he doesn’t really need to, because Jeremy can see a note of <em> please shut the hell up </em> in his eyes. So he does. </p><p>“I gotta go make a call, is that alright?” </p><p>Jean nods vaguely, drifting across to perch very lightly on the edge of his bed, gaze flat and fixed on the floor. </p><p>“Cool,” Jeremy says hopelessly, putting the bag down again. “I’ll be just out there,” he hooks a thumb towards the living area, “so just come out whenever you want to. When you’ve unpacked. We can get a pizza or something.”</p><p>He hates to admit how much Jean’s silence is getting to him, but as he closes the bedroom door behind himself, he can’t help a selfish moment of relief to be away from that piercing, hollow stare. He shakes that thought off the moment it rears its head, and pulls his phone out. He’d told Jean he was making a call, so he kinda needs to make one now. He’ll call Kevin to let him know everything’s okay. It’s better than lying to Jean on his first day.</p>
<hr/><p>The rest of the afternoon passes in horrible silence as Jeremy tries to while away the hours without going near Jean. It’s not until the evening that their bedroom door creaks open very slowly. Jean stands on the threshold, skin ashen and eyes set deep in his face. They end up ordering pizza; when it arrives, Jeremy bounces off their couch to go answer the buzzer. He doesn’t realise until he’s outside and has been looking for the delivery guy for a good five minutes that Jean’s alone upstairs. When he gets back up, Jean is standing by the door, his eyes wide and unnerved, and Jeremy drops the box onto the counter so he can coax him gently back onto the couch.</p><p>“Easy,” he murmurs once Jean is sitting and staring blankly at the opposite wall. “I’m super sorry, man, I didn’t mean to leave you.” He rises, ignoring the way Jean’s eyes slide over to him the moment he moves, and retrieves their food from where he’d left it. When the box hits the coffee table, Jean blinks once, dropping his gaze and hunching his shoulders as if afraid of being caught staring. So Jeremy doesn’t even mention it, just smiles through the crossbow bolt of nerves that twists into his chest because <em> he’s already fucking this up</em>, and flips the box open. He’s struck by the colour playing across Jean’s knuckles when Jean reaches forward to pick up a slice; struck because he recognises that colour. He recognises the colours of stress and anxiety and uncertainty because he’s seen them a thousand times before. Jean blinks down at his own hand, then scoops up his pizza and settles very tentatively back into the couch. There’s absolutely nothing on his face, there’s nothing to indicate that he’s noticed the colours or that he cares about them. It’s weird, but Jean’s weird, so Jeremy lets it slide. </p><p>It’s not like he can talk, not when he hasn’t looked at his own mark since that morning. It’s been an awful grey, static and nothingness, for months now. He’s wondered so many times whether his soulmate is in a coma that it’s practically stopped upsetting him anymore. Sara had taken one look at his mark when she’d come back after the summer, and she’d sighed and wrapped him in a tight hug with a murmur of, “at least we match.” They do, it’s true. It’s not much comfort, though.</p><p>He thinks about putting the TV on, about playing something stupid that neither of them have to really watch, but he can’t find the fucking energy to do it. And even if he did, he’s worried that Jean will spook if he adds yet another stimulus for him to block out. So he doesn’t. He sits there quietly, watches as Jean eats and keeps a careful eye on how quickly Jeremy is eating so he can keep pace with him. After two pieces of pizza, Jean is starting to look faintly repelled by the idea of eating more. It’s not the blankness Jeremy is used to seeing, but it’s not exactly good. So he hums thoughtfully to ease Jean into the possibility of a conversation after so much silence, considering the piece of pizza in his hand.</p><p>“I just think if they made, like, a pizza sandwich? I would be all over it.”</p><p>Jean shoots him a look.</p><p>“No, hear me out. It’s folded or something, that way you can’t lose the toppings all over the place. Plus you can hold it without getting stuff on your hands, right?”</p><p>Jean mutters something so quiet he would have missed it if he hadn’t been desperate to hear <em> something </em> from him.</p><p>“C’est une putain de calzone.”</p><p>Jeremy pauses for a moment, squinching his nose up, then laughs.</p><p>“Shit, you’re right.” And Jean looks absolutely mortified to have been overheard, much less semi-understood, but at least he looks like he’s <em> feeling something</em>. </p><p>If Jeremy had been looking at his arm, he would have seen a tiny thread of bright red wrap itself around his wrist, then disappear again. Maybe it’s good he wasn’t.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. the best people i know are looking out for me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Settling in is a challenge everyone expected but no one is fully prepared for.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tB4Avdlz3lk">here</a></p><p>alternate titles included:<br/>1) shit i want to see from these nerds<br/>2) how long can i avoid describing an exy game<br/>3) jean and sara dreamteam</p><p>this took me many days to write. i dont know why because i had… 2000 words of notes. hey ho.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jeremy very quickly realises that the easiest way to make Jean actually focus on what is going on around him is to say something stupid. It’s good news, because he’s excellent at saying stupid stuff, even when he <em> doesn’t </em> mean to. Now that he does, he says every dumb thought that comes into his brain, regardless of how ridiculous it is.</p><p>At first, Jean doesn’t really react. Other than cutting a glance over to Jeremy that’s either tired, disappointed, or angry. One day Jeremy says, half-asleep and staring meditatively into a bowl of Froot Loops, “cereal’s just soup, isn’t it?” to Jean, who drops his empty coffee cup. Jeremy reckons it’s half shock at being spoken to, and half shock at how stupid Jeremy is. He only laughs when his brain catches up five minutes later, by which time Jean has cleared up the dregs of coffee splattered across their cabinets, washed his mug, and vanished into their bedroom. When he hears Jeremy laugh, he reappears in the doorway and arches an eyebrow. Jeremy has no answer to give him, so Jean rolls his eyes and leaves him to his bowl of multicoloured milk.</p>
<hr/><p>Not everything is easy.</p><p>For his first week of real Trojans practices, Jean is a <em> nightmare</em>. He’s rude, he’s impatient, and he looks two seconds away from hitting someone in the head with his racquet at any given moment. Jeremy spends more time putting out fires than he does actually playing Exy, but somehow he’s twice as tired by the end. The only people who see it or know about it are Sara and Laila, because they’re good at spotting his moods and they know when he’s trying not to be miserable.</p><p>The problem is that they know what’s causing him this much stress. They know it’s running around after Jean, they know he’s on edge when he and Jean are in their room, they <em> know </em> he wakes up night after night with Jean’s voice in his ears pleading for his life. And they do get it, they know why he does it and they know why Jean is like that, but none of them are fully prepared for how deeply Ravens training has cut Jean. They’re not prepared for how abrasive Jean is when he gives feedback after practise. Or the way the team reacts to that. </p><p>It really comes to a head after about a week and a half.</p><p>That’s always the time that everyone is a little too tired and achy. They’re all just trying to get back into the rhythm of regular practice and working hard after their summer off, and tempers are running high. The only person working at 100% capacity seems to be Jean and that is <em> terrible </em> news for the rest of them, because when they finally regroup by the benches and start to run through what went wrong, it takes less than three seconds for Jean to launch into a stinging verbal evisceration of their newest striker. </p><p>When he finally falls silent, Jean takes one look at Jeremy’s face, pales, and leaves the court. Jeremy doesn’t really move to stop him. Weirdly enough, the first person to go after him is Sara. And, well, before she leaves she gives Jeremy a pissed off look that very clearly says <em> why the fuck aren’t you moving? </em> but before he can parse that meaning, she’s already gone, dropping her racquet so she can undo her gloves on the way.</p><p>Jeremy and Laila share a glance, and it’s only when she makes an impatient gesture that he realises he should probably go after them. He passes his racquet to her, ignores the fact that she flips him off for it, and jogs off the court after Sara. </p><p>It’s sheer dumb luck that he doesn’t miss her; he’s about to dip into the locker room to check whether Jean’s alright when he hears Sara’s voice down the hall. He pauses for a second, hand on the door in front of him, and then Jean answers her and that kinda seals the deal for him. He takes a few quiet steps down the hallway. Something stops him from going any further, though. He knows it widens up further ahead, turns into the common area they tend to sprawl across before games. He doesn’t want to get caught. Not that he should be listening in anyway, but Sara’s fuse isn’t known for being particularly long and if Jean says something stupid it’s probably a good idea to be close by.</p><p>That’s what he tells himself. He leans his back against the wall, tips his head back, and listens to the harsh sound of Jean’s breathing. There’s a sound, like something hitting the ground, and he wonders whether it’s Jean’s pads or Sara’s. Or both, he acknowledges, could be both. There’s a creak as someone sits on one of the couches, then a moment of silence.</p><p>“I get that,” Sara says quietly, “but this isn’t the right way to do it.”</p><p>Jean sighs and the couch creaks again. “There’s a right way and there’s a quick way.”</p><p>“And here we do things the right way.”</p><p>Jeremy smiles to himself. He’s been getting better at saying no to what they’ve started calling Jean’s Ravenisms, but Sara’s always just been good at it. She always knows how to say no without being harsh. There’s a moment of silence - he imagines the look on Jean’s face while he takes that in. It’s not hard to imagine, he’s seen it enough, the mixture of frustration and shame. That’s normally the time he breaks and tries to comfort Jean. Which Jean <em> hates. </em></p><p>“I hate it here,” Jean says sharply; it’s designed to land hard and it sure as hell does. Jeremy just about hears Sara suck in a breath, but the sound of his heart pounding in his ears is much louder, and it drowns out whatever Jean says next. He knew Jean’s adjustment wasn’t exactly a smooth ride for either of them, but he’d been kind of hopeful about it all. He’d thought things were getting better. He’d thought <em> Jean </em> was getting better. Realising he was wrong is like being punched in the gut.</p><p>He scrubs his hands over his face, grinds the heel of one hand into his eye, and exhales as heavily as he dares. Right. He straightens up, ready to leave and pretend his heart isn’t broken. “You’re not,” Sara answers, gentler than she’s ever spoken to Jean. “He doesn’t think that. And if you think he would, you’re doing him dirty.”</p><p>And Jeremy really regrets losing the important part of that conversation to his own feelings now. He thinks he’s missed something about him. That shouldn’t bother him so much, but it does. If he’s doing something to Jean, he wants to know. He wants to be able to readjust, if that’s the right move.</p><p>Jean sighs irritatedly, and Jeremy can picture the way he hunches over, elbows on his knees, and glowers at the floor. There’s silence again. He straightens up, ready to leave. “He won’t give up on you,” Sara says with an air of finality as the couch makes a noise like she’s standing up. Jean doesn’t answer. When she rounds the corner, she jumps at the sight of him. He presses a finger to his lips and she rolls her eyes at him, then hooks her arm through his to lead him away.</p><p>When they’re far enough that Jean won’t hear them, Jeremy has to ask. “Is he okay?”</p><p>She chews her lip and shakes her head. “He will be.” It’s quiet optimism that Jeremy had really thought was reserved only for him.</p><p>When Jean reappears, pale and still jumpy whenever Jeremy looks at him, no one says anything to him. Jeremy catches a glimpse, while Jean is waiting for him to finish packing up his bag so they can leave, of black twisting between his fingers and trailing down his wrist. He knows the colour, but it’s such a stark contrast from the bright, sunny yellow that he remembers Jean’s mark being that he doesn’t stop shooting glances at it out of the corner of his eye. If he had stopped, he would have missed the look Jean gives him in return; but no, he sees Jean’s gaze drop to his shoulder and when he follows the look, he sees how dark the grey of his mark is. It’s not static, it’s charcoal, storm clouds. It’s grey verging on black that says <em> anxiety </em> and it’s fucking heartbreaking to realise that their marks match up. That for once Jean’s soulmate is not having a good day. Jean doesn’t deserve that on top of everything else.</p><p>He’s so focused on that, he doesn’t realise that this is the first thing he’s seen that’s not just pale grey in <em>months</em>. The first emotion his soulmate feels is anxiety. That’s shitty too, that’s just another thing to think about, only he has Jean in front of him and he needs to focus on that rather than on someone who could be on the other side of the world. So he shrugs his jacket on and picks his bag up, then joins Jean at the door. “I’m gonna make stir fry tonight, you up for it?”</p><p>The look on Jean’s face isn’t exactly encouraging, but it’s not mean. He looks tired, mostly. Guilty. Definitely nervous. “I’m sorry,” he says dully once they’re in the car, face turned away to stare out the window. Jeremy wrinkles his nose. It doesn’t land right, it sounds like it’s something Jean expects to <em> have </em> to say. When he doesn’t answer, Jean tries again, his voice pitching up slightly and accent fading the more anxious he becomes. “Jeremy. I… I know I shouldn’t have said that. Not that it wasn’t true, but you didn’t want that. I fucked up. I can do better.”</p><p>Jeremy opens his mouth. Something in his face must say bad things because Jean glances at him and his shoulders slump. “Just… don’t give up on me.”</p><p>It breaks his heart all over again. He shakes his head and reaches out, despite his instincts telling him not to, to clasp Jean’s wrist gently. “I’m not going to give up on you, Jean. I swear.” Jean doesn’t shake him off. He hardly stiffens up. He just sits there, exhausted, letting Jeremy’s hand sit on his arm, and stares down at his hands and his dark soulmark. Jeremy squeezes very lightly, then takes his hand away and starts the car. “I’m here as long as you need me,” he says quietly. Jean turns his head away again.</p>
<hr/><p>Jeremy calls Kevin the next day. He’d spent the previous night with Jean either at his side or watching him from across the room. He doesn’t know quite how long Jean slept, but he doesn’t think it’s more than a couple of hours, because every time he’d woken in the night he’d felt eyes on him. So he calls Kevin. He’s been doing that every couple of weeks, just to reassure the Foxes that Jean is at least still there and still trying. This is much sooner than normal, and Kevin sounds a little breathless when he answers, as if he’s run to answer. “Is he okay?”</p><p>Jeremy chews over that for a second, then nods. “He’s fine. I think. I just have, like, questions.” Kevin very clearly hears something in his voice that he doesn’t like, because he sighs and swears.</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>Jeremy sits down on the sidewalk. Jean is at therapy and he’s waiting outside because the sun is shining and that means he gravitates towards it. “He’s just… he’s snippy. And I <em> get </em> it, Kev, I do, but he’s taking it out on the same couple of people over and over again. It’s meant to be feedback, I guess. Just feels like a vendetta.” And once he starts, he can’t stop. “I know I’m with him all the time but I don’t feel like I know anything about him. I know the bad stuff, sure. Only that’s it, you know? And he acts like I’m gonna hurt him all the time, it <em> sucks</em>.”</p><p>Kevin sucks in a sharp breath. His voice when he speaks again is cool, like he’s pissed. Whether it’s at Jean or Jeremy isn’t actually clear. “I’ll talk to him about it. He went through a lot. He’s just used to being there, he’s used to Riko.” His voice hitches over the name and he gives himself a second to regroup before he starts again. “Don’t give up because nothing’s changing. It took me… months.”</p><p>“I’m not giving up! Why does everyone think I’m gonna give up?” Jeremy throws his hands up in frustration, then swears when the phone flies out of one of them. He scrambles over to pick it up off the grass verge and presses it to his ear again to hear Kevin’s worried voice.</p><p>“You okay?”</p><p>“Fine! I just, uh, tripped.” Jeremy winces as he says it. “Don’t talk to him, I’m fine. Anyway, he wakes up in the middle of the night. Like, nightmares. But they don’t, like, go when he wakes up. Does that make sense?”</p><p>Kevin’s silent and Jeremy starts to panic that he’s rambling and making no sense at all. “Yeah. It’s the dark,” he says finally. There’s another pause, and Jeremy checks to see if the call is still connected. “The Nest is dark. He didn’t have a window.”</p><p>Jeremy wrinkles his nose and sighs, hanging his head as he considers that. It makes sense now; the way Jean had stared at the windows in their apartment like he hadn’t expected them to even have windows. Because he <em> hadn’t</em>. He listens to Kevin’s breathing on the other line, chewing his lip and staring at the ground, then inhales sharply. “So, light. When he wakes up.”</p><p>“Any kind of light,” Kevin agrees. Jeremy nods. At least it’s a plan. “Anything else?”</p><p>“How are you doing? I know with the season starting people are talking about <em> him </em> again, you’re doing okay with that?” Because Jean hasn’t been, Jeremy doesn’t think. It’s kind of hard to tell with Jean, but they definitely steer clear of sports channels and stick to Netflix when they turn the TV on. Jean doesn’t get any news alerts on his phone. It’s exactly the bad stuff he’d been talking about; he knows, when a notification comes through on his phone, how Jean studies his face to try to figure out whether it’s about him, but he doesn’t know Jean’s favourite colour. What he likes, what he doesn’t like.</p><p>Kevin’s sigh crackles through the phone. “Okay. I have Andrew, Neil. They’re good.”</p><p>Jeremy can’t quite imagine Andrew Minyard being that much help in a situation like this, but he hums in agreement. “If you need anything, you can always call me, dude.” He doesn’t think Kevin ever will, but he’ll float the offer anyway. And even though Kevin laughs and agrees in a tone that means he will not be calling Jeremy any time soon, hopefully the offer will stick in his mind.</p><p>When Jean emerges, Jeremy is still sitting on the curb, phone held loosely in one hand as he traces the fingers of the other up and down his arm. His mark is still grey most of the time, but he’s starting to see some moments of colour - of red or blue or black. They’re not good colours, but they’re at least better than just grey, and he likes to see it. Still, he jumps to attention as Jean appears at his side, scrambles to his feet and grins, and they walk home in the late afternoon sunlight, avoiding serious topics of conversation the whole way. Jeremy doesn’t mention his call to Kevin, nor the Amazon email on his phone confirming his order of a small nightlight, and Jean spends his time in thoughtful silence while Jeremy talks about literally anything else. </p><p>Over the course of the entire evening, Jean offers a grand total of four responses to Jeremy’s nonstop, stream of consciousness chatter. Every time, Jeremy laughs and the tension on Jean’s shoulders eases just a little.</p>
<hr/><p>Jeremy doesn’t hear Jean get up the next morning. Nor the one after that. But Jean’s always gone when he wakes up. He ends up messing around in the kitchen and pretending he’s not waiting for Jean to get back from wherever he’s gone (it’s always either the court or the gym, Jeremy remembers from spending the summer getting up at ass o’clock to go with him) but when he does get back, Jeremy smiles and doesn’t quite manage to hide his relief as he presses a coffee into Jean’s hands.</p><p>Things change a couple days later. It’s not Jean that wakes Jeremy up, just like it’s never Jean. It’s his own brain. For months, he’s been waking up in cold sweats, gasping for breath. He always looks over at Jean’s bed, and Jean is never there, and he has to remind himself that Jean is <em> fine </em> so that he won’t pick up his phone and call him a million times. Before Jean had even arrived, Jeremy had had to realise that things weren’t going to be easy. That the possibility it would be too much for Jean was much higher than he wanted to believe. The amount of trauma Jean had gone through was unimaginable, and the one thing he and Kevin and Renee had discussed regularly was keeping a close eye on Jean to look for warning signs. If he fails Jean on that front, he knows he’ll never be able to live with himself. Jean deserves the chance to live, but they all know that his own mind might not be inclined to agree with that. Jeremy’s worries about that are always there, they’re always preying on his mind, but when he falls asleep and stops pretending to be alright, that’s when they really come into their own. That’s when he tosses and turns, silent even when he’s unconscious so that he won’t disturb Jean. And he wakes up every night for months; sometimes when Jean is still sleeping, sometimes after he’s left. He wakes up and he’s always crying, and he always looks over at Jean’s bed. If Jean is there, he can go back to sleep. If he’s not, Jeremy has to get up, because even if Jean is going to therapy now, even if he does seem to be settling in very gradually, it’s not like he can ever really <em> know </em> whether Jean is truly out of the woods. He might never be out of the woods.</p><p>He wakes up one morning a few days later with a jolt and a hastily bitten-off gasp, lurching upright even as he’s searching for Jean’s sleeping form under his comforter. There are tears on his face again. When he sees Jean sitting up, he wipes them quickly before he turns the light on. “You alright?” He checks the time; quarter past four. It’s so fucking early, but Jean is already dressed and lacing his shoes. The back of Jean’s hand is blood-red, spelling pure fear. He feels sorry for Jean having to look at that. He wonders what Jean's usually happy soulmate is afraid of. </p><p>His shoulder aches faintly and when he goes to rub it, he notices the threads of painfully bright yellow trailing their way all the way down to his wrist. It makes him anxious just to look at, so he can’t imagine what’s making his soulmate feel that way. When he looks back up at Jean, cool eyes drift from his soulmark up to his face and Jean’s eyebrow ticks up slightly.</p><p>“Going to court.” That’s nothing new. But Jean looks unsettled to be going alone and Jeremy wonders whether the start of the semester has meant Jean has stopped waking him to come along even though it’s not what he wants. Even though he still needs the company. He’d always thought, when he’d woken up and Jean was gone, that Jean hadn’t woken him because he didn’t need him. Only now does he piece together that he still walks Jean to every class, still waits outside the therapist’s office for him. Jean doesn’t wake him up because he’s afraid to disturb him. His heart breaks all over again. </p><p>“Let’s go, then,” he agrees gently, throwing the covers back and hopping out of bed. Jean eyes him uncertainly, but he’s already pulling a pair of shorts on, grabbing his hoodie and stepping into sandals. He doesn’t really give Jean time to say no.</p><p>As they leave their room, stepping into the silent hallway, Jean says, “you don’t have to.”</p><p>Jeremy shrugs and smiles. “I know. At least this way you get a ride.”</p><p>His smile is echoed not with another smile, but just a slightly unimpressed look. Coming from Jean, it means the world, because he doesn’t <em> look </em> afraid to have gotten Jeremy out of bed. Even if he is. Jean rubs absently at his wrist; the red is darkening into black. Jeremy’s stomach lurches to see it, but there’s so much else going on, his own soulmate is increasingly anxious and his nightmare is still lingering at the edges of his mind. He feels ungrounded, he feels about two seconds from breaking apart. He smiles wider. </p><p>He doesn’t bother to change when they get to the stadium. It’s too early and all Jean wants is to not be alone. He doesn’t want a partner on court, which means that Jeremy gets to make himself comfortable in the stands and watch Jean play until he’s too tired to stay awake. The anxiety is bleeding out of his mark again; it leaves behind the deep green he’s come to associate with focus, mingled with something he’s only started seeing recently. It’s kind of like teal, but he can’t pinpoint what colour it is exactly. It’s dull, like the exposure has been turned down, and it’s not blue nor green. It’s a confusing colour, and he thinks that’s the point. It’s supposed to be, because his soulmate is confused.</p><p>Jean keeps casting glances over at Jeremy as he runs Raven drills over and over again. Jeremy doesn’t know what time it is when he stretches out along the bench and closes his eyes, but he’s fucking <em> exhausted </em> and the familiar sounds of Jean’s shoes against the floor and the ball hitting the back wall lulls him into sleep faster than he would like to admit.</p>
<hr/><p>When Jean looks over and sees Jeremy asleep in the stands, he rolls his eyes. Jeremy is an idiot. He’s obviously exhausted, he’s been exhausted for months, but he came all the way to court at a ridiculous time of morning just so Jean doesn’t have to be alone. It’s a level of care he’s not used to, doesn’t expect, and doesn’t know how to handle.</p><p>He keeps practicing until Jeremy stirs again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>jeremy: asks kevin how he is<br/>kevin: instant fanboy boner</p><p>i too have yeeted my phone out of my hand whilst gesticulating. that was based on a true story.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. you'd have me if i could only make me better</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's strange to be jealous of a total stranger over someone you have no claim to.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1L5zJ2afLs">chapter title</a>
</p><p> </p><p>also affectionately titled 'writers block but make it 4500 words'</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>California never really gets cold.</p><p>Jean doesn’t remember what winter in France feels like, but winters at Evermore had been fucking cold. Two years in a row, Riko’s Christmas gift to him had been ice cold water poured over his face until he couldn’t breathe, until he was convinced he was going to die, until he <em>begged</em> to die.</p><p>In so many ways, California is nothing like that.</p><p>It’s warm. The sun still shines. Jeremy wears sandals. Sometimes he wears socks with them, and Jean glowers at him until he laughs and changes.</p><p>He’s going to therapy now. He’s been going to therapy since he arrived that summer. Over the last month he and his therapist have been talking about how to start separating himself from Jeremy. How to take those first steps towards real independence.</p><p>Even in late November, when the sky is clear, the air is crisp, it’s still not cold. Jean has started walking to therapy alone. Jeremy still picks him up, because he’s so wrung out and spacey by the end of the sessions that he needs the company. At the same time, though, that’s where the problems arise. Jeremy has so much energy. He talks constantly, which is good, because he fills the silence much more constructively than Jean’s own brain, but it’s also <em>terrible</em> because Jean is so tired. He’s so tired all the time, and Jeremy always smiles. Jean doesn’t know how to mention it to him.</p><p>It’s not that it’s a bad thing. It balances him out. But still, he calls Renee on his way to his session one cool morning. She answers immediately, her voice sweet and calm, and he knows he made the right choice calling her rather than Kevin.</p><p>“Is everything alright?”</p><p>“It’s Jeremy,” he says, then regrets it immediately. She sucks in a breath, and it’s like the sweetness has soured immediately when she speaks again.</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>She likes Jeremy as much as anyone else, but Jean has a terrible feeling that she would happily call him and terrify him into never looking at Jean again if she thought she needed to. “Nothing. It’s just… I don’t know what to do. He’s around so much and it’s good, but he has so much energy. I’m tired. Then I get nervous about being too tired to talk.” It’s the bluntest he’s been in a long time. Renee is silent for a long time, long enough to make him anxious, but then her voice comes back through the phone and it soothes his raw nerve endings immediately. </p><p>“Have you told him this?” It’s such a simple question, isn’t it, but Jean still freezes up at it. It takes a couple of attempts for him to actually answer. </p><p>“I don’t know how to. How do you tell human sunshine to stop shining?” Her laugh is quiet, but Jean’s mouth twitches faintly when he hears it.</p><p>“You’re not asking him to stop. You’re just letting him know that it’s okay not to be constantly <em>on</em>.” Jean frowns, but she continues before he can ask her to. “Jean, you know no one is happy all the time. No one has unlimited energy, right? So if Jeremy is like that whenever he’s with you and he’s with you all the time, it’s gotta be tiring. Remind him that he doesn’t have to do that. You don’t need it.”</p><p>The anxiety that knots Jean’s stomach isn’t a surprise. Even thinking about telling Jeremy any of that makes him want to vomit. He stops and sits heavily on the grass verge next to the sidewalk, resting his forehead in his hand.</p><p>“I know it’s hard,” Renee continues gently, “but it’s the best move for you two, isn’t it? The longer you leave it, the harder it’ll get.”</p><p>“I’m going to sound like a dick,” Jean points out. She laughs.</p><p>“Jeremy’s not a delicate flower. He can handle it. Just don’t be cruel.”</p><p>Jean hates that she’s right. Jeremy won’t break down, he won’t lash out if Jean asks him for a little more space and a little less energy. He’ll adapt and it might even be better for him as well as for Jean. Still, he knows he’ll say it when they’re somewhere he can gauge Jeremy’s reaction with less fear of immediate consequences. He’s not going to wait until they’re back in their dorm.</p><p>“When are you coming down?” he asks very quietly, lowering his head to avoid a couple of curious glances. Her sigh makes the speaker crackle.</p><p>“Let me know what you’re doing at Christmas, okay? We can spend it together if you’re not with Jeremy.”</p><p>Will he be with Jeremy? He tries to imagine himself at Jeremy’s house, surrounded by Jeremy’s family, celebrating a day he hasn’t even acknowledged in years. They haven’t talked about winter break yet.</p><p>“I have to go.” She accepts it as not the brush-off it sounds like. Renee knows him that well.</p><p>“Talk soon. Have a good day.”</p>
<hr/><p>Jeremy picks him up from therapy. As usual, he’s early. When Jean steps out, drained and overwhelmed, he sees Jeremy standing there with a coffee, the way he always is. Jeremy’s come to learn that the last thing Jean wants is to talk on their walks home. It didn’t exactly take him long. Mostly just because Jean tends to ignore him from the moment he leaves the office to the second the door to their room closes behind them. It’s not <em>always</em> deliberate (although sometimes it is) but Jeremy never gets offended by it.</p><p>Jean still kind of thinks that’s weird. He thinks Jeremy’s weird, really, but he also very much appreciates it.</p><p>They walk together in the winter sunshine and Jeremy talks, gesturing wildly with his hands, while Jean half-listens and mulls over his conversation with Renee. He knows at some point Jeremy will ask him about winter break. He doesn’t have an answer for him; he doesn’t have anything to do. He knows he could go see Renee, and he probably will, but there’s always the chance that Jeremy will ask him if he wants to come to Texas. If he does, Jean doesn’t know what he’ll answer. Half of him says <em>yes</em>, because he’s so used to being with Jeremy that he doesn’t think he can handle being apart. Maybe more than half of him. But the rest of him wonders if maybe he should try not spending every waking minute with the same person. For the first time in over a decade.</p><p>Jeremy’s tone shifts and Jean blinks himself back to actual consciousness. He doesn’t realise he’s automatically on the alert until he looks around, registers there’s no threat, and relaxes again. When he shoots Jeremy a glance, the blonde is looking at him like he’s asked a question. It’s horrifying, honestly, because Jean hasn’t been listening, and Jeremy clearly knows that, going by the dawning realisation on his face. Jean prepares for something that doesn’t come - a slap or a pinch or even just a hissed threat. Instead, Jeremy laughs and repeats himself as if it doesn’t matter one bit that Jean hasn’t listened to a single word he’s said. </p><p>“How was today?”</p><p>For a moment, he can’t answer. He can’t even remember what they talked about, not when he’s focused on how terrified he is that Jeremy’s caught him zoning out. He swallows roughly. Clearly something shows on his face; Jeremy reaches out and clasps his arm very loosely, just below the crook of his elbow and loose enough that he can shake it off if he needs to. Weirdly, it’s the touch that releases the band around his chest enough to speak. His accent is thick and his voice rough, but at least it’s steady. It doesn’t shake.</p><p>“Hard.” It comes out without the ‘h’, the ‘r’ catches in his throat and he coughs to clear it. Jeremy blinks, then nods with a gentle smile.</p><p>“It’s gonna be,” he agrees quietly. He’s right. It sucks that he’s right. Jean sometimes wishes it could just be over. But that’s not how recovery works, as he’s been told approximately a million times. It takes time and it hurts, and the whole way through it he has to stare at his stupid soulmark and imagine that one day it’ll matter to him more than just as an incentive to stay alive. An incentive that’s not even real, because he doesn’t even think he wants to meet whoever is on the other end. He can’t imagine the hell he’s put them through. If their positions were reversed, he doesn’t think he’d want to meet the person with that much trauma.</p><p>Jeremy goes back to talking about something inane, and Jean can zone out again, but Jeremy’s hand doesn’t move for the rest of their walk home. He doesn’t move it. He finds he likes the touch, which is just another in a long list of weird things he’s learning with Jeremy Knox.</p>
<hr/><p>The tentative peace he and Jeremy have brokered is something of a balancing act to maintain. It’s a fine line between pretence and sincerity. He doesn’t know quite where the pretence ends anymore, and he also has no idea how Jeremy is feeling about anything, because Jeremy smiles all the time, even when his eyes aren’t quite caught up with it. When Jean lashes out, Jeremy doesn’t sit and take it, but he doesn’t lash out in response. He shakes his head and he explains why he doesn’t appreciate what Jean says. He’s calm and Jean’s temper always fizzles out as quickly as it had sparked. </p><p>It’s a fine line, sure, but they manage to tread it.</p><p>When Jeremy asks Jean at the start of December whether he has plans for Christmas, Jean panics and snaps at him. Then he leaves their dorm before Jeremy can argue back. Jeremy finds him, of course he does; it’s not hard, when Jean always ends up on the court, running the drills that have been beaten into him over and over again until he can do them with broken limbs and one eye swollen shut.</p><p>When Jeremy says his name, quiet and a little disappointed, Jean stumbles and misses his next shot. He swears violently under his breath and drops his racquet, and Jeremy winces in sympathy.</p><p>“I didn’t mean to spring it on you,” Jeremy says as he unlatches the door and steps onto the court. He starts picking up the cones without looking at Jean. Jean doesn’t protest; he’s trembling faintly, he realises with a start, and his arms ache like he’s blown them out. Which he might have done, honestly. He’s been here longer than he’d realised. He plops onto the ground and hooks his shaking arms around his knees as he watches Jeremy clear up around him. “I just figured you might not have worked anything out.”</p><p>“I’m going to Renee’s,” Jean tells him sharply; a little more sharply than he’d meant to. He hears Jeremy’s teeth click together when he shuts his mouth quickly.</p><p>For a moment, awful silence echoes around them. Then Jeremy puts the pile of cones next to Jean and goes to collect the balls. “Alright. Good. Just wanted to check, you know?” He finally comes to a halt in front of Jean. He looks almost disappointed, and Jean braces for a reaction that will deflect that disappointment and turn it into something meaner and more violent.</p><p>Instead, Jeremy sits down with him, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his thighs. “Jean. I think it’s a <em>good</em> idea to go spend time away from me. I’m not saying it wouldn’t be weird without you, but maybe it’s the right thing. Get some space without being alone, you know?”</p><p>Jean laughs humourlessly, lies back to sprawl across the polished wood of the court, and closes his eyes so he can pretend he doesn’t feel Jeremy’s surprised gaze. “You make everything so hard,” he says without thinking. It’s not until the silence that follows those words registers with him that he blinks and raises his head to look at Jeremy. Whose mouth is pressed into a thin line, eyes focused on a spot somewhere on the other side of the court, as he inhales calmly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”</p><p>If this is what finally pushes Jeremy into snapping, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. It seems like that would be a cruel joke, but then the universe seems to love playing cruel jokes on him. He watches very carefully when Jeremy moves, even though all he does is uncurl and flop down ungracefully next to Jean, hands laced across his chest to show that he’s not going to do anything. </p><p>“I know you didn’t.”</p><p>“I was talking to her last month,” he begins, and when his chest tightens up it’s his turn to sit up so he doesn’t suffocate.</p><p>“Was it about--”</p><p>“It was about you.” He doesn’t dare look at Jeremy. “I know what you’re doing. I know Kevin asked for your help dealing with me, I know he passed all of it on to you, and I <em>get</em> that you’re just doing what he asked, but I… Putain, I can’t rely on you like this forever.”</p><p>For an awful moment, his words echo up to the rafters and neither of them move. When he glances to the side, Jeremy is smiling. It throws him off immediately, and he can’t help but shift a few inches to the side, away from Jeremy, because he doesn’t trust that at all. “Stop it.”</p><p>“That’s the most you’ve ever said to me in one go,” Jeremy says with a laugh. When Jean gives him a bug-eyed glare, he sobers up as best he can and clears his throat, propping himself up on his elbows. “I get it. I know you need to start being more independent, but, like, I didn’t have a manual for when that should start. I’m <em>super</em> winging it right now. If you say you want to start having more space, that’s fuckin’ rad! Let’s work on that!”</p><p>He sounds so genuinely relieved that Jean snorts. For a moment, he considers making a snide comment about Jeremy’s own freedom, but he doesn’t. There’s something about the two of them lounging on the floor of an empty court and talking about everything that so far they’ve refused to talk to each other about that just makes him want to turn his sharp edges away from Jeremy. Just for a moment, he wants to be normal.</p><p>Jeremy’s smile crinkles the corners of his eyes and Jean swallows, dropping his gaze away to tug at the end of his shoelace. “And stop,” he gestures helplessly, “this. If you’re not in a good mood, don’t pretend to be. It makes me--” <em>Anxious. Paranoid.</em> “--feel weird.”</p><p>Jeremy’s expression doesn’t dim, which is <em>really</em> nice. Jean’s come to learn that when it reaches his eyes, it’s real. It’s genuine happiness. More often than not, it’s genuine anyway, but the fact that he can recognise the real good moods means he can recognise the fake ones. He knows what they look like. He wishes he didn’t.</p><p>“Okay. I can work on that,” Jeremy agrees. It’s too easy, it makes his skin prickle with goosebumps, but Jeremy’s face is open and his smile calm, and for once Jean chooses to take what he says at face value. He climbs to his feet, sticks a hand out and, when Jeremy reaches up to clasp his forearm, pulls him upright. They’re toe to toe, Jeremy’s smile is almost contagious, and when he looks down Jeremy’s arm is a colour he’s never seen before; red has faded and given way to a clean, soft green that Jean stares at for a little longer than he means to. He’s <em>never</em> seen that colour on his captain’s arm before, but clearly Jeremy has, because Jeremy sees what Jean is staring at, and his mouth drops open.</p><p>For a second, Jean doesn’t know what to say.</p><p>He’s never seen Jeremy look like that before. His fingers flex, then peel away, letting go of Jeremy’s arm, and he rubs his wrist where Jeremy had been clinging on a moment ago. Then Jeremy looks up at him and his smile knocks Jean backwards a couple of steps. “They’re <em>happy,</em>” he says, his tone hushed and awestruck.</p><p>And Jean remembers that Jeremy has more to feign happiness for than just him. His chest squeezes weirdly. His own wrist is soft sunny yellow - glowing like the nightlight that sits in the corner of their room even now, months after he first arrived - and he finds that he doesn’t care about his soulmate’s happiness the way Jeremy cares about <em>his</em> soulmate’s. He watches Jeremy twist his arm this way and that, his eyes wide and brimming with delight, and when he can’t watch anymore he turns away to pick up the balls and his racquet, tucking it under his arm so he can snag the pile of cones as well. Jeremy swears quietly behind him. A glance over his shoulder shows deep blue pouring down Jeremy’s arm from his shoulder, washing away all of that green. <em>Good.</em></p><p>“Let’s go,” he says stiffly. Jeremy nods, mouth pinching into a small frown, and darts to his side to take his racquet off him. As they leave the court, he gestures to Jeremy’s arm. “They’ll be fine.”</p>
<hr/><p>Something Jean had kind of expected but is still amused to see is quite how focused Jeremy gets when it comes to Christmas shopping. It’s like tunnel vision. He gets it: Jeremy’s family actually cares about Christmas, it’s a happy thing for them and they have gifts and stuff, but Jean is, unsurprisingly, not a good shopper nor in the festive mood, and yet since he’s still mostly attached to Jeremy, he goes on a lot more shopping trips than he wants to. He has nothing for Renee, nothing for Kevin, nothing for Jeremy or Sara or Laila. Jeremy helps him figure out gifts for the others. He’s grateful for that, because it only really dawns on him when they’re out that he has no idea what the fuck to get other people. He has no idea what to get himself, either, but that’s another reason why Jeremy has been so useful.</p><p>That doesn’t mean Jean doesn’t <em>hate</em> and <em>fear</em> Christmas shopping with him. He thinks he’s good at hiding it, but Jeremy very clearly disagrees, and he ends up spending several afternoons with Sara and Laila while Jeremy goes into the centre of town alone, sparing Jean the crowds. He’s good. Jean doesn’t fully realise that that’s the main reason until the third weekend in a row.</p><p>A week before Jean is due to fly east, Jeremy comes into their living area where Jean is sitting with a coffee and a textbook, trying to study, and drapes himself over the back of the couch to invite him out for a coffee. Jean looks at the mug in his hands, then up at Jeremy, whose mouth twitches. “Flimsy excuse,” he says, but he puts his coffee down anyway. The smile on Jeremy’s face is almost worth missing out on a couple hours of studying.</p><p>Jeremy <em>insists</em> on wrapping a scarf around Jean’s neck, although the temperature is in the 50s and winter in West Virginia was much colder than this. Jean puts up with it anyway, because it’s a soft scarf and he’s still too wary to argue with Jeremy. Plus, when they leave their building, the wind is harsher than he’d expected and he suddenly very much appreciates it. Jeremy’s nose is pink by the time they’re halfway across campus; Jean rolls his eyes and passes his scarf over, because Jeremy is an idiot and a southerner and doesn’t have one of his own. And he’d had the audacity to laugh when Jean had bought that one.</p><p>The coffee shop is warm, the windows slightly steamed up, and before Jeremy can say anything, Jean tells him to find somewhere to sit. He’d rather be doing something, even something as simultaneously mundane and anxiety-inducing as getting coffee, than sitting and waiting for Jeremy to reappear at his side with the same assessing glance he always gives Jean when they have to leave each other’s side. Not that it stops Jeremy from looking up at him quickly when he gets to the small table tucked into the corner, but at least he doesn’t say anything to Jean. He takes his coffee with a small smile and pushes the other chair back with his foot so Jean can slide into it, but most of his attention is focused on the guy standing over the table. Tall, as tall as Jean, with a smile that can rival Jeremy’s, big hands cradled around his own cup. </p><p>Jean watches the two of them silently until Jeremy gestures to him and says his name. He’s missed the rest of the conversation, he doesn’t know exactly what the context is, but it doesn’t matter because the stranger sticks a hand out and he gets to his feet to clasp it just a little too tightly. That’s instinctive, but the mean satisfaction he gets when the guy flinches is kind of worth it. To his credit, he doesn’t say anything, just drops Jean’s hand again, but his jaw ticks faintly as he introduces himself as Max.</p><p>Introduces himself as Jeremy’s ex.</p><p>Jean’s not stupid, he knows Jeremy was dating someone last year. Jeremy’s handsome, he’s sweet, and he’s smart despite the stupid shit he says, and he has a ridiculous talent for making whoever he’s talking to feel like they’re the most important person in the room. And clearly Max remembers that. But the smile he gives Jeremy while they talk is tempered by the glance he slides over towards Jean out of the corner of his eye. Jean doesn’t bother pretending not to notice it, just sips his coffee and leans his elbows on the table. It works, too, until Max points to Jeremy’s arm and Jeremy rolls the sleeve of his sweater up just a bit. His skin is dark, angry red. Max winces in sympathy.</p><p>“It always was kinda weird, wasn’t it?” he says. His voice is very gentle, but Jean sees how heavily it lands with Jeremy by how Jeremy’s shoulders hunch. “You noticed that, Jean?”</p><p>Jean’s stare is bland, but his mouth pinches at the corners. “Oui.” Jeremy shoots him a curious look and he <em>completely</em> ignores it.</p><p>“Found them yet?” Max asks. Jeremy shakes his head and shrugs, plastering a smile on his face that Jean sees through but Max doesn’t seem to.</p><p>“One day,” he says faux-brightly, digging his thumbnail into the side of his cup.</p><p>“Pretty optimistic, Jer.” It’s still soft; Jeremy still winces.</p><p>Jean stands again, cocking his head to the side, and digs up some semblance of a photo ready smile. “C’était un plaisir, mais we have to go.”</p><p>Jeremy looks up at him and his lips quirk upwards very faintly, but he doesn’t say anything to argue, just gets up and picks up his coffee. He hugs Max quickly, gives him and Jean approximately two seconds to shake hands, then tugs at Jean’s sleeve before he can crush Max’s hand again.</p><p>As they step back outside and Jean hands his scarf back to Jeremy, he rolls his eyes. Jeremy glances up and cocks an eyebrow at him. “Care to share with the class?”</p><p>“Non. So that was your ex.”</p><p>Jeremy shrugs as he winds the scarf around his neck again, pulling it up over his nose. “Yeah,” he says, voice muffled through layers of bright red wool. “We broke up last year. It was totally fine, you know, just my mark is kinda all over the place and it was worse back then. I guess Max felt, like, secondary? He thought I was crazy for wanting to find them.” He pauses for a second, then looks up at Jean. “Do you?”</p><p>Jean shakes his head silently. It would be hypocritical of him to think that when his own soulmark has been his only comfort for years now. His soulmate is the one person he’s <em>wanted</em> to meet. He gets how important it is to Jeremy. And, perversely, there’s a little thrill of smugness that runs through his veins when he remembers every time Jeremy has covered his arm so he can focus on Jean. Every time he’s come first in a way Max apparently didn’t. It’s stupid, isn’t it, but Jeremy is his closest friend and he’s used to that kind of codependency, so he’s going to let himself be just a little smug because being smug about this is better than being jealous that Jeremy will still smile and be nice to his ex.</p><p>“He plays lacrosse,” Jeremy continues blithely, sticking his hands into his pockets and jerking his chin towards the court.</p><p>Jean snorts. “Max from lax?”</p><p>He freezes up a second later, gritting his teeth instinctively, and slides his gaze very cautiously over to Jeremy. He’s still prone to snapping like that, to saying something a little too cruel or just saying something too harshly, and he still panics whenever he does. The fear of retribution is too deeply nestled within him. But Jeremy cracks up, wheezes “I never thought of that,” and the crushing weight lifts off Jean’s chest very slowly.</p><p>Jeremy has just about pulled himself together by the time he drags Jean into the Trojans’ store, and, ignoring the weird look Jean gives him, starts hunting for something apparently very specific. He flips through endless sweatshirts, hats, glasses, pausing only to hold up a shot glass with Jean’s surname and number on it - Jean snorts but doesn’t miss the fact that Jeremy holds onto the glass as he continues looking.</p><p>“Your mark isn’t that bad,” Jean tells him casually, tracing his fingertips over screen printed letters spelling <b>M O R E A U</b> across the back of a garishly red jersey.</p><p>“It was worse last year,” Jeremy agrees, “now it’s kinda just… weird?”</p><p>“They have trouble feeling, Knox, I think that’s fairly normal.”</p><p>Jeremy glances sharply at him, weighing the world’s <em>worst</em> garden gnome - and that’s saying something, because all garden gnomes are horrifying and Jean doesn’t understand Americans’ obsession with them - in his hand. “How do you figure?”</p><p>Jean shrugs and twitches a <b>DERMOTT</b> jersey back onto its hanger. “Grey like static. Dissociating. It’s not rocket science. Maybe they don’t want to, maybe they weren’t allowed to. Sounds like the second one.”</p><p>He can feel Jeremy’s eyes on him. He’s so grateful Jeremy doesn’t probe any further. He doesn’t want to <em>say</em> that he knows how Jeremy’s soulmate feels, because as much as Jeremy has seen from him, he doesn’t think Jeremy knows the full extent of the dissociation, the terror, the grief. The trauma.</p><p>Jeremy puts the shot glass and the gnome down and turns to Jean. “Do you mind if I hug you?” he asks quietly.</p><p>Jean doesn’t have the heart to say no. It’s the first time anyone has touched him like that in years, and it’s been longer still since he was touched like that without it making him sick to his stomach. Jeremy wraps his arms around Jean’s waist and leans his cheek against Jean’s chest; painfully slowly, Jean’s own arms slide around Jeremy’s shoulders. “I’m sorry it happened to you.” He’s said it so many times before, but when it’s muffled into Jean’s coat it sounds different somehow.</p><p>After a minute, Jean pushes him away, skin crawling with too much contact, and Jeremy goes without complaint to pick up the tat he’s apparently intending to ruin someone’s Christmas with. “You wanna go get some lunch somewhere?”</p><p>“Sure. As long as that thing leaves our room and never comes back,” Jean agrees, gesturing to the gnome in his arms. Jeremy laughs as he goes to pay. With a final brush of his fingers across his own surname and the curves of the number <b>29</b>, Jean heads for the door to wait for Jeremy outside, where the wind can whip away the heat in his face.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://shop.usctrojans.com/usc-trojans-holding-stick-gnome/p-36912875142304+z-9761-3712063832?_ref=p-TLP:m-GRID:i-r15c1:po-46">this is the gift jeremy is buying</a><br/>when i sent it to my iconic beta and loml the feedback was<br/><em>Next level cursed</em><br/><em>I hate it</em></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. it's no better to be safe than sorry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes it's a leap of faith. Sometimes the answer's been there the whole time.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFebcBRSiBk">chapter title</a>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>i have been told to call this chapter:<br/>1) Jeremy you're my sun: hard to look at directly<br/>2) I keep getting told off for being too sappy<br/>thanks tara ily2</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The annual winter banquet, as it always does, rolls around yet again. Its arrival is unavoidable, and it’s one of the biggest sources of stress in Jeremy’s life. Normally he looks forward to it. He likes a good party, and he enjoys seeing the other teams in their district outside of the court. This time, though, he’s nervous. He vividly remembers seeing Jean embroiled in tense conversations with Kevin, with Neil, with Riko. He remembers Kevin’s hand in a cast and Jean’s hand in a matching one. He remembers <em>that year</em>, not because it was the year Kevin had left the Ravens but because of the awful, excruciating pain unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He doesn’t think it’ll happen again, because his soulmate seems to be doing better and it would be really shitty luck if history were to repeat itself in that way.</p><p>Still, he has some bad memories associated with the banquets.</p><p>Not nearly as many as Jean probably does.</p><p>Jeremy nearly cries when Laila and Sara offer to stay home if Jean wants to. He doesn’t really have the option, as the Trojans’ captain, but the girls do and so does Jean. And no one would blame Jean for wanting to sit this one out. Still, he’s not surprised when Jean shakes his head. Much as it would be fair enough not to go, it would also be unlike Jean. He’s never been one to back down so easily, even now when he has every good reason to do so. It’s one of the things Jeremy is most proud of him for.</p><p>Without his weird Ravens pseudo-uniform, though, Jean doesn’t have a suit. Jeremy <em>offers</em> to go get one with him, but it’s no shock that Jean says no. What is kind of a shock is that Sara asks if he wants company, he shrugs blandly and when she takes that as a yes Jean doesn’t argue. Maybe Jeremy should be offended? But Sara and Jean are unlikely but real friends at this point. At least he won’t be going alone. As much as things are slowly improving, it really is <em>slow.</em> He knew that would happen. Still. It’s hard.</p><p>It really strikes Jeremy how huge it is that Jean is out with someone other than him. Normally, if he’s not with Jeremy, he’s alone. The fact that he has willingly gone shopping with someone else is momentous. When he says that to Laila, she snorts and rolls her eyes and reminds him that he isn’t Jean’s therapist, and he’s allowed to just think it’s cute that Jean and Sara are actually friends without analysing the whole situation.</p><p>It is kinda cute.</p><p>And when they get home, the two are still speaking to one another, so that’s a good thing. Jean tucks the bag in their closet without showing Jeremy, but that’s <em>fine</em>, he’s <em>totally cool with it</em>. Even more cool when Sara assures him that it’s a good suit and it’s not all black; Jean’s lip curls at that but Jeremy deflects it by passing him a plate of grilled cheese that he can be bitchy and French about. There aren’t many things that make Jean into a snob, but grilled cheese is certainly one.</p><p>By the time the day actually comes around, Jeremy is so keyed up he’s sleeping even worse than usual. He thinks Jean is in the same position, judging by the fact that every time he wakes up, Jean is already awake. Neither of them talk about it, because obviously. They go to court, to the gym, for a run, or they just hunker down on the couch and watch their way through all the dumb holiday specials Jean has missed.</p><p>That morning is different. The tension in their dorm is crushing. From the moment Jeremy’s eyes fly open, he can tell it’s about to be a hard day. One glance at Jean confirms that. Jean is sitting bolt upright, his legs folded as he stares at the wall opposite him and chews the inside of his cheek. The soft glow of the nightlight is just enough to illuminate the colours of stress and tension on Jeremy’s skin (he’s always wondered if his soulmate might be in a different time zone to him, and now he’s certain of it because it’s way too early for any normal person to be up, let alone to be this panicky).</p><p>Today, Jeremy knows they both need to move slower. He drags his comforter out into their living area, heats some milk to make hot chocolate, and when Jean appears with his shoes in his hand Jeremy shakes his head and points to the couch. “It’s too early,” he says by way of explanation. Even though this is the time they normally leave, Jean accepts that without question. Jeremy thinks he sees a flicker of relief in Jean’s eyes when he sinks into the couch and accepts a steaming mug from him.</p><p>They fall asleep on the couch. Jeremy only knows they both do because when he stirs and blinks sleepily, Jean is still sleeping, his face turned into the back of the couch to muffle his breathing. He yawns and smiles tiredly, taking extra care not to jostle Jean as he extracts himself from the warm tangle of blankets. Still, Jean must know that the body next to him is gone, because it’s not five minutes later that Jeremy hears footsteps, then a quick apology from the doorway of their bedroom as he’s getting dressed.</p><p>“All good, man, come on in.” But Jean lingers on the threshold for a few seconds, waiting until Jeremy turns to face him, fully dressed and combing his fingers through his hair, to actually step inside. It’s typical of him. “I’ll let you change. Wanna go out for breakfast?”</p><p>Jean stares for a second, then shrugs. “Alright.”</p><p>“Rad.” Jeremy refuses to let the total lack of enthusiasm get to him; if he did that every time Jean’s reactions were flat, he’d never stop crying about it. He tugs his shoes on, washes up, and then Jean reappears, shrugging his jacket on. He looks actually relaxed for once. The shadows under his eyes are just a little lighter, his mouth is less mean, his hair is still sleep-rumpled and he doesn’t move to fix it. Jeremy’s heart squeezes not unpleasantly.</p><p>Breakfast stretches into brunch and they only look at the time when Jeremy’s phone buzzes with five texts from Laila in a row.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Jean pays while Jeremy is reading them, and when he looks back up Jean’s already by the door, wry smirk on his face as he waits. He drops a few dollars on the table and picks up the tip Jean left, passing it back to him as he joins him at the door. “At least let me get that,” he presses when Jean tries to refuse.</p><p>The drive back is quiet, but not awkwardly so. It’s more relaxed than anything else. They’re silent but neither of them feels weird about it.</p><p>It’s comfortable until they get home. When Jeremy parks up outside the dorms, they both sit in the car for a minute, staring out of the windshield. Then Jean turns to him and eyes him for a second, and Jeremy feels so seen that that’s what pushes him into opening his mouth. “I should go help Laila. You wanna grab a shower first?”</p><p>For a second, Jean’s eyebrows draw together; Jeremy can see him parsing the sentence in his head, then his face smooths out and he nods. “I’ll be quick.”</p><p>“Dude, I won’t be. Take your time.” Jeremy lets them both into the building. They separate on their floor, and he watches Jean disappear into their dorm before he heads for Sara and Laila’s. Thanks to Jean’s move, USC managed to put in a strong case for hosting this year. Edgar Allan has transferred out of their district, leaving it a much closer knit community than it had been before the Ravens showed up. The other teams have either already arrived or are on their way, and the athletes’ dorm is buzzing both for the main event and for the countless guaranteed afterparties. Jeremy is fully aware that he and Jean will end up going straight back afterwards, but it doesn’t bother him that much.</p><p>The girls’ room is full of winter sunlight and smells like a combination of shampoo and perfume. Sara is sprawled across their bed in sweatpants, hair dripping down her back as she scrunches her curls up in her hands. When Laila spots him in the mirror she spins around and jabs a finger at him. “Did you go to court?”</p><p>“Court’s off limits for setup,” he reminds her with a laugh as he gestures for her to sit on the bed. He kneels on the mattress behind her and takes the hairbrush she offers him. “We went for brunch.”</p><p>Sara snorts with laughter and Laila jerks her hair out of his hands to twist around and eye him suspiciously. “You went for brunch? Just you two?”</p><p>“Not everyone thinks brunch is a date, babe,” Sara coos, grin shit-eating and unrepentant when her girlfriend glowers at her.</p><p>“I’m just <em>asking</em>.”</p><p>“It was just brunch,” Jeremy sighs. He starts brushing her hair once she turns back. “We’re both kinda on edge, you know? The last couple years haven’t been awesome for either of us. Don’t want a repeat tonight.”</p><p>Laila hums quietly; he knows her eyes have been closed from the moment he began to twist her hair together, so he’s not offended by the half-hearted reaction. It’s Sara who sits up, squeezing water out of a curl before she winds it around her finger. “You think he’ll be alright?”</p><p>He shrugs. “I don’t know. At least the Ravens are gone.” With one braid pinned neatly into place, he starts on the second, working as quickly and neatly as he can. “I guess without Riko he’ll be better off. He deserves one year that’s not the actual worst, you know?”</p><p>He ties off the second braid and pins it up as well, then nudges Laila to face him so he can tug a couple of strands loose. With his parents both working hard and his sisters a good few years younger than him, he’d had to be good at braiding hair if nothing else. It had moved from a necessity to a way of just catching a couple of minutes with his sisters around the time they’d turned ten. He enjoyed it, and they did too. And so did Laila.</p><p>She smacks a loud kiss onto Jeremy’s cheek, then bounces off the bed to inspect herself in the mirror as he gets to his feet. Before he’s even reached the door, Laila is back on the bed, worming her toes under Sara’s thigh as she scrolls through her phone to put music on. He forgets how fast people who aren’t Jean move when they’re off the court. Every movement Jean makes is deliberately calculated so Jeremy can see it happening and they have time to react to one another.</p><p>His dorm is quiet when he lets himself in. He can hear water running when he goes to their bedroom door, so he plops onto the couch and stretches out across his comforter, still there from the morning. He stays there, half-napping, until Jean opens the bedroom door and jumps about a mile. “Hi, I’m back.”</p><p>“I see that,” Jean answers, grouchier than usual after his shock. “Go shower.” </p><p>Jeremy rolls off the couch happily, stretches, and out of the corner of his eye sees Jean watching him. Probably just to see what he’s going to do, in case it’s something bad, but it still makes him shiver to feel the gaze on him.</p><hr/><p>Jean in a suit, Jeremy decides, shouldn’t be allowed.</p><p>It’s not like this is the first time he’s worn one, but it’s the first time he’s worn one that isn’t a Moriyama approved one in a crowd full of them. This time it’s soft dark grey fabric, with a black shirt underneath. It fits his broad shoulders neatly, his shirt collar is unbuttoned when he first steps out of their room to join Jeremy in the kitchen, and his hair is curly and sticking up everywhere. The whole thing is <em>a lot.</em> Jeremy holds out his tie in a silent question and Jean draws in a short breath. It’s the kind of noise he would have missed if it weren’t for the fact that he’s lived with Jean Moreau for months now, and he’s attuned to every shift in Jean’s breathing, every minute twitch of his hands or his mouth. Jean takes it, sliding the soft green fabric through his fingers, and glances at Jeremy’s face curiously before he loops the tie around his neck. “Their happy colour,” he says very neutrally, watching himself tie the knot.</p><p>Jeremy stuffs his hands into his pockets and stares over Jean’s shoulder. “Yeah. I know it’s kinda lame, but. It makes me feel better.”</p><p>“I like this colour.” Jean slides the knot up to tuck it under Jeremy’s chin, flattens his collar out, then steps back and away to tie his own tie. He doesn’t seem to notice the fact that Jeremy is watching him, or if he does notice it doesn’t bother him.</p><p>The court looks completely different when they step inside. Jean is a tightly wound ball of nerves at his side, radiating anxiety and practically not breathing because of it. Next to Jean, Sara is doing her best to offset his tension. Laila at Jeremy’s other side has her fingers twined between his, a comfortable, reassuring presence against whatever Jean is trying to do to him. They catch sight of a small ragtag group across the room; the Foxes are surrounded by people, but when they see the Trojans, Renee and Kevin extricate themselves and head over. As Jeremy steps forward to greet them, that’s when the rest of the Trojans scatter, spreading out between the groups and melting away like snow under midday sun. It leaves him and Jean standing together - Sara and Laila vanish to get drinks - and Jean shifts just a little closer to him as Kevin comes to a halt and puts his hand out. His smile is disarmingly genuine, but Jeremy can see how he analyses their closeness. He shakes Kevin’s hand with a grin, then clasps Renee’s as well. She steps forward to hug Jean and he accepts it silently. Jeremy doesn’t miss the fact that Jean tucks his face very slightly into the crook of her shoulder.</p><p>He’s saved from overthinking <em>that</em> by Kevin drawing him into conversation, while Renee and Jean end up stepping off to the side to talk. Her face, when he glances over, is open and earnest, and Jean is actually meeting her eyes as he speaks to her. Jeremy <em>knows</em> he and Renee are the people Jean trusts most in the world, but still. It’s weird to see that confirmed.</p><p>It’s not until after dinner that Renee manages to catch him to talk. Somewhere, he knows Jean is with the girls, because they’d promised that if he wasn’t with Jeremy then he would be with them, so he’s happy to sit with her and chat as he scans the room. She smiles genuinely and leans forwards with her elbows on the table. Jeremy has the overwhelming feeling that she really <em>wants</em> to be speaking to him right now. That’s always nice.</p><p>She starts off with, “did he ask about winter break?”</p><p>Jeremy pulls a face, then nods. “Kinda <em>told</em> me. It was good.”</p><p>She laughs and shrugs unapologetically. “Good for him. I think Kevin’s arranged the flight for him, but would you mind driving him to the airport?”</p><p>“Duh.” Jeremy grins. “I’m gonna cry and wave to him the whole way through security.” Renee’s laugh echoes through the room despite all the noise.</p><p>“He’ll hate it.”</p><p>“That’s the plan.” They fall silent, both watching the swirl of people around them to see if they can spot teammates, Kevin, Jean, Laila. Anyone. “Hey, I never got the chance to say thanks. I know you were the one who went to Edgar Allan for him, so, yeah. Thank you. I think you saved his life.”</p><p>Renee’s gaze turns towards him, and under it he feels weirdly vulnerable. He swallows nervously and smiles. The smile she gives him in return is <em>blinding.</em> She reaches out to take his hand, squeezing his fingers tightly, and cocks her head to the side. “You’re doing a really good job, you know. He tells me a lot.” Jeremy swallows, his eyes drop away from hers, and she laughs and nudges him. “Thanks for looking out for him, Jeremy. He deserves everything you’re doing for him.”</p><p>Jeremy catches a glimpse of Laila’s braids, then Jean appears and Jeremy squeezes Renee’s hand again and stands up to meet him halfway. “Want another drink?” Jean shrugs and nods.</p><p>When Jeremy glances over his shoulder to ask Renee if she wants to come, she’s already shaking her head with a smile, gesturing for them to go ahead. He nods, touches Jean’s arm lightly, and directs him across the room. As they go, Jean asks what they were talking about. He cocks his head to the side, grins. “Christmas.”</p><hr/><p>Jeremy spends his entire winter break thinking about Jean.</p><p>He’s not even particularly worried about Jean. Like, he’s definitely worried, because how can he not be? But he’s always this level of worried about Jean, so that’s nothing new. The thing is that he’s been at Jean’s side constantly for <em>months</em>, and now Jean is just gone and Jeremy feels weirdly untethered, like his strings have been cut, even though they’ve worked hard on starting to separate from each other over the last couple weeks. He drifts aimlessly around the house, annoying the shit out of his sisters with his closeness until they throw something at him, and he can’t pinpoint what the hell is wrong with him but it’s bothering him as much as it bothers his family.</p><p>When his sister rounds on him and demands an explanation, he doesn’t have one to give. He can’t think about the fact that he feels lost without Jean by his side, because that would mean thinking about the fact that somewhere along the line, he and Jean have ended up each other’s closest friend, partners just like the Ravens are.</p><p>They’re gonna need to talk about that shit when they get back.</p><p>For now, they text constantly. By that, Jeremy means that he texts Jean nonstop and sometimes Jean sends him a thinly-veiled insult in return. He tells Jean every stupid thing he does in a day, how he’s feeling (but only when he’s feeling good), scraps of family gossip that Jean doesn’t care about. Jean’s texts are always short, they’re never <em>nice,</em> but at least he’s sending Jeremy a message. At least he’s still doing <em>that</em> okay. </p><p>Where Jean doesn’t give him information, Renee occasionally fills in the gaps. She tells him Jean is less than fine. She tells him <em>not</em> to get on a plane east. She tells him she’s keeping an eye on Jean and she thinks they both need the time apart. Without any of that, Jeremy thinks he would have lost his mind. He rereads some of her messages when he can’t sleep, or when his soulmark is playing up. </p><p>As if life isn’t hard enough, it does that more often than he’s seen in the last four months. It fluctuates between grey and navy and deep, dangerous red, and it keeps him awake at night. He’d been starting to hope that his soulmate’s life is getting better, slowly but steadily; this is just proof that that’s nothing but a pipe dream. Apparently nothing is getting easier, nothing is getting better. It tears him in two. He’s supposed to be focusing on Jean, but for most of his life, he’s been focusing on his soulmate, and old habits die hard. So he has to spread himself thin so he can think about both at the same time, because he refuses to drop either one.</p><p>For the most part, he forces himself to only call Jean once a week. They talk for hours when they do speak, but it always starts off in awkward silence while Jeremy works to draw Jean out of the shell he always retreats into between calls. When Jean does eventually start to respond, without fail Jeremy will brighten almost immediately. It’s probably lame that his moods are that easily influenced by whether or not Jean speaks to him, and by how much, but he can’t really help it. If Jean <em>chats</em> to him, it’s because he wants to, and that’s the best feeling.</p><p>Normally he would be happy to stay at home until the semester started again. He’d make the most of being with his family, he’d enjoy the precious time with his sisters because he misses them a whole lot when he’s at school, he’d take the dog on stupidly long walks where he could just yell his frustrations over his soulmark up at the grey sky. But this year he isn’t. He decides not to do that.</p><p>He speaks to Renee instead, and that’s how he ends up picking Jean up from LAX for the second time that year. This time is different, although so much is familiar. He hops out of his seat and throws his coffee cup into the nearest trash can, just as he had done last time. But Jean’s face isn’t a sick combination of blank, mistrustful, miserable. No, instead Jean’s mouth twitches into what’s almost a smile, and Jeremy smiles in return, and it’s like coming home. It <em>is</em> coming home. When he talks to Jean on the way home, Jean actually answers. He actually listens and he responds to the questions Jeremy feels comfortable in asking now. It’s very different to that summer. </p><p>
  <span>They ring in the new year on their small couch with a couple of cheap sodas, and get up at eight the next morning to head to the gym. Jeremy’s soulmark is a pleasant tie-dye mixture of washed out greens and blues, of happiness and hope that makes him so fucking glad. Jean's fingers are curled loosely around his can, he’s not watching Jeremy. He’s staring down at his hand, because even in the dim room Jeremy can see the warm, comforting gold that trails up over the back of it to wrap, Jeremy knows, around his wrist. They’re both happy and both their soulmates are happy. It’s the most relaxed New Year’s Eve Jeremy has ever had. He kinda likes it. He definitely likes the small, real smile he earns himself when he taps his can against Jean’s as fireworks from his laptop screen light the room in washed out greens and reds.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>When school starts again, things are different. There’s been a weird change. He can’t explain what it is, but it’s definitely there, and what’s more, it’s definitely noticeable. He first spots it when Jean is in the middle of a tirade. Jeremy is tucked up on the couch with a textbook in his lap that he isn’t even pretending to read, and Jean is gesturing angrily while Jeremy laughs at him. He wipes his eyes and splutters a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jean, stop!</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Jean freezes up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only now, after Jeremy realises what he’s done and scrambles to apologise, Jean doesn’t shake him off. He stands still and silent for a couple of seconds, letting Jeremy talk until he’s out of breath, then moves to brace his hands against the counter. He takes a few steady breaths as Jeremy watches him. “I’m alright,” he says, finally. It doesn’t feel like a lie. Jeremy didn’t even ask him if he was alright. He’s so proud of Jean and the fact that now, given a minute or two, he can talk himself out of the Raven headspace without even listening to Jeremy, that he orders burgers and puts on a movie. Jean doesn’t protest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy kinda thinks Jean is proud of himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cranks the AC up and pulls on a sweater to cover the wash of soft green that’s taken over his arm. His arm which had, a few minutes ago, been bloody red. Normally he’d focus on that change, of course he would, but tonight is about Jean. If he can’t see his mark, then he can’t focus on it.</span>
</p><p>(That doesn’t stop him from peeking at it when he goes to the bathroom. It’s the same green. He knows he must be radiating his own happiness.)</p><hr/><p>It’s still not smooth sailing. A couple days later, Jean is hanging things in their shared closet after they do laundry. Jeremy’s swiping through his phone and ignoring texts from his sisters because they <em>will not stop</em> asking about his cute roommate and he doesn’t have the energy. Another nightmare and an early morning gym session with Jean has taken that out of him. He’s also ignoring a paper that <em>really</em> needs his attention.</p><p>When Jean sees the tie again, he pauses, and Jeremy looks up from his phone just in time to see the way he trails his fingers over the pale silk. He watches silently for a moment, then Jean looks over at him. “What colour do you think your happiness is?” he asks.</p><p>Jeremy blinks, startled, then shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He smiles a little wistfully. “My mom’s is yellow. I kinda hoped I would be too.”</p><p>He doesn’t know what he’s said, but Jean jolts and his fingers curl tightly around the fabric twisted between them. He watches closely. Nothing else happens. Jean’s grip relaxes eventually, he swallows so hard Jeremy can hear it. “That would make sense,” he says very casually.</p><p>Jean shuts the closet doors. There’s a jacket lying across the end of his bed. He picks it up and shrugs it on. Jeremy watches, bemused, as he grabs his keys. “I forgot I had to call Kevin.”</p><p>At best it’s a flimsy excuse, but Jeremy nods and smiles, pretending he’s not immediately unsettled by it. “Okay. I’ll be here, alright?” Jean doesn’t even look at him, just slips through the door and disappears.</p><p>It’s the weirdest interaction the two of them have had in a long time. Jeremy can’t even think about focusing on his paper anymore, not after that. He sends texts which go unanswered to both Sara and Laila, then one to Renee. His phone doesn’t buzz. He flops back onto his bed with a heavy sigh, and picks up his laptop to pretend to work. It’s not like he’s even pretending for anyone’s sake. He’s just pretending. If he doesn’t pretend he’s going to lose his fucking mind because he has <em>no idea</em> what he’s done wrong but he’s done something and it’s <em>the worst feeling in the world.</em></p><p>He stares silently at his computer screen until he hears the door reopen again a couple hours later. Jean is quiet, so he clearly hasn’t been running or to the gym. Jeremy hears his keys hit the kitchen counter, then a sigh as Jean sprawls across the couch. He’s not even going to come into their room. Not going to talk to Jeremy. So Jeremy throws his laptop aside and clambers off his bed. He wouldn’t normally go talk to Jean after a reaction like that, but he <em>needs</em> to know what the fuck happened.</p><p>“Hey, you’re back. Where’d you go?”</p><p>Jean doesn’t even look away from his phone.</p><p>“You know I’m your soulmate, right?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>oooo we stan a cliffhanger</p><p>did i a) change my timezone b) create a fake contact c) text myself? yes. is laila's contact picture <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/b018b991984245cf357af11602aeace5/aede6eaf100b7bd1-a6/s1280x1920/5faafb66f964aa5d338f62b0c7142964650e915b.jpg">this photo</a> of me with a starbucks? also yes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. terrified it's a mistake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"You know I'm your soulmate, right?"</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="youtube.com/watch?v=wIujkCCJ7dg">chapter title</a>
</p><p>ya this took me ages<br/>maybe i just wanted to leave u with the cliffhanger for many days? u dont know?<br/>(not really i just started work again)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You know I’m your soulmate, right?”</p><p>The ground tilts strangely under Jeremy’s feet. He stares at Jean until Jean looks up over the back of the couch, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. “What? No? No!” He laughs a little wildly as he edges out of the room, skirting the couch, and picks up his sneakers. “What?”</p><p>Jean watches him, unimpressed. He hops on one foot as he pulls a shoe on, trying not to fall over in front of <em>his soulmate, what the fuck.</em> Jean’s hand is such a pitiful bright blue; pitiful because if it’s true, then he can <em>see</em> how hopeful Jeremy is and it’s so fucking humiliating he really wants to run. When he’s finally standing upright again, that’s when he feels brave enough to take a deep breath and try to speak. Because he’s him, what comes out of his mouth isn’t the same as what is rattling around his head in lieu of any actual brain. “I have to go.” By the look on Jean’s face, that’s not what he expected to hear. He blinks at Jeremy for one awful second, and then it’s like shutters go down over his eyes.</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>Even though it’s basically permission to go, Jeremy stays where he is. Only now does he realise that he doesn’t want to run away from this. This conversation is going horribly and it’s only going to get worse from here, he can just tell, but if he leaves it’ll be ten times worse, maybe even twenty. He shifts anxiously from foot to foot, then pushes his sneakers off with his toes and leaves them abandoned on the floor as he takes one tentative step towards the other couch, then another. By the time he’s sitting, perched on the very edge of the seat cushion furthest away from Jean, he’s at least a little calmer. “When did you figure it out?”</p><p>Jean shrugs, but leans over to put his phone down on the coffee table. “Just now.”</p><p>The look Jeremy gives him is dripping with disbelief. “No, Jean. Try again.”</p><p>Jean eyes him thoughtfully. “Just now,” he says again. He relents a moment later, just as Jeremy is about to lose his cool. “I wondered before.”</p><p>“You didn’t say anything.”</p><p>“I wasn’t exactly in the place to.”</p><p>Jeremy nods, concedes that point, and drums his fingers anxiously against the edge of his seat. “I’m so stupid.” Jean opens his mouth. Jeremy pushes on before he can speak. “I thought it was <em>Kevin</em>. Because of his hand and the pain, I thought—“</p><p>“But not me? You saw my hand.”</p><p>Jeremy falls silent. He knows how this must look. He knows as well as anyone, if not better, that Jean has always, <em>always</em> come second to Kevin, and sometimes to everyone else as well. Jean has spent a lot of time at the bottom of the pile, out of sight and out of mind. And his own soulmate has just been <em>idiotic</em> enough to confirm that yet again, he’s come second to Kevin. Not even second, really; Jeremy has, sometimes, wondered about Jean, but he’s never had the guts to contemplate it too deeply, particularly with the state Jean has been in since he arrived.</p><p>“Jean.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Jeremy flinches.</p><p>“Jean. Are you sure? I’ve seen you on court. I’ve played against you. They’ve been in so much pain and you’ve been playing exactly the way you normally do. No one can play Exy in that much pain.”</p><p>Jean laughs, and it’s hollow, so empty it makes Jeremy’s chest ache like his heart’s just been pulled out. "Fuck you," he says, horribly calmly. Jeremy hesitates, glances down at his mark, and it's so much worse to see that he's not angry. That he can no longer hide the hurt behind his cruel words.</p><p>“I’m sorry, that sounded so bad, please listen.”</p><p>Jean shakes his head. “It’s fine, captain.”</p><p>That word punches Jeremy in the gut, then, when he curls inward slightly to try to catch his breath, delivers a perfect kick to his teeth. His breath shudders and catches in his chest and he feels his chin wobble. “Jean…”</p><p>When Jean tears his eyes away from the opposite wall and looks over at him again, they both as one glance at Jeremy’s arm. Jean is only feeling pain. Not physical pain, but any other kind of it. He’s betrayed, he’s upset, he’s pissed. It’s all fuzzy, like he’s starting to shut down against everything that’s tearing his heart to shreds. The fact that it’s <em>Jeremy</em> tearing his heart to shreds is so painful Jeremy feels his own chest ache in sympathy. He’s seen his mark disappear so many times, but he never thought he would be the reason for it. Jean’s gaze is agonised when it meets Jeremy’s again. </p><p>“We both know you deserve more.” The dangerous look on his face warns Jeremy not to even <em>try</em> to interrupt. “You deserve a soulmate who doesn’t cover your fucking skin in a whole rainbow of shit, but this is la vérité, Jeremy, can’t you fucking see that? I’m not wrong and <em>you know I’m not</em>.” His voice is rising steadily, angrier now, and he’s half shouting when he speaks again. “You don’t want this, moi non plus, mais here the fuck we are!”</p><p>He pulls his sleeves over his hands and rises to his feet, leaving his phone on the coffee table in front of him. “I don’t think I need to say anything else when you can see exactly what the fuck I’m feeling. <em>Just fucking look down, Jeremy.</em>”</p><p>Jeremy looks down. He sees sadness, panic bleeding in. When he looks back up, the door is already closing behind Jean.</p>
<hr/><p>Jeremy must sit there for an hour. He’s not ready to go anywhere or see anyone. He’s not exactly ready to be alone either. He doesn’t know what he wants. What he doesn’t want is to stare at his arm but that’s somehow exactly what he ends up doing. The muddy colours somehow manage not to blend into one another, even with how quickly they’re shifting and moving, darkening to almost-blacks, then lightening up again. Over it all, bright red screams terror. Jean is panicking.</p><p>If Jeremy cries, he knows now that Jean will see it. He thinks back on every single colour that’s flashed across his skin. The pain; that blinding agony the night Kevin left the Nest. The number of times Jean must have been seriously injured, because not only did it show up on Jeremy’s skin, but it also seared itself into his own nerve endings. He remembers splitting headaches, bone deep aches, fingers that still hurt in the dark of the night. The gut-wrenching sadness of not being able to protect his soulmate from everything that he’s seen and felt. He doesn’t cry because he needs to not.</p><p>The look on Jean’s face before he’d left still lingers in his mind. The part of him that searches for every scrap of good in any situation recognises that Jean yelling at him was good. Jean even broaching the subject was good. It was a good thing for him and Jeremy wants so desperately to be proud of him, but even he can’t be happy all the time, and especially not when it’s come at the expense of the fragile normalcy they’d managed to build up. Now everything has fucking fallen apart. It hurts more than anything else Jeremy has felt from Jean. </p><p>Now that he knows, he wonders about all the worst things he’s seen on Jean’s skin. To know concretely who it is that was hurting, and <em>how badly</em> they were hurt, it makes everything much more real and so, so much worse. This is the guy he’s spent <em>months</em> looking after and worrying about, trying to help him, trying not to develop the most ill-fated crush after the first smile Jean Moreau ever graced him with. He remembers sprawling across the floor of the court, Jean sat at his side; he remembers Jean’s cool hand clasped around his forearm as he hauls Jeremy onto his feet and the corners of his mouth twitch in response to Jeremy’s own smile. He remembers the argument he once picked with Jean to take his mind off a story about Riko in the news. He remembers the soft green that had diffused across his wrist and licked its way up to his shoulder like cold fire, even as Jean had stared at him like he was internally debating Jeremy’s IQ while Jeremy snorted his way through trying to explain his point.</p><p>He thinks about all the times he’s made Jean smile, and all the times Jean has made him smile. It feels like he should have… known. He’d watched his soulmate’s life shift drastically, he’d been at Jean’s side while Jean’s life changed course, and he hadn’t once put it together. He’d known Exy was going to be the link between the two of them, but not once had he thought that Jean Moreau’s broken hand might have something to do with his own aching fingers, that the fallout onto the Ravens after Kevin escaping Edgar Allan might have influenced the colours raging across his skin that night. He hadn’t looked at the serene blues and greens while he and Jean sat at opposite ends of the couch and watched the next year begin, and thought <em>hey, they’ve never been hopeful at New Year’s before.</em> He’d hardly even looked at his arm at all. His focus on Jean had put his mark to the back of his mind. </p><p>So it’s not really a surprise that Jean worked it out first, if he’s being completely honest.</p><p>Still kinda embarrassing.</p><p>A door slams down the hall and pulls him out of his head. Whatever colour that must have been on Jean’s hand, he thinks he’s probably seen the same on his own. That’s pretty weird to think about, so he elects not to. With a lot of effort, he gets to his feet and retrieves his sneakers. He needs to talk to someone before he splits down the middle and sprays blood all over the place. And thank fuck, Laila is in the girls’ room when he knocks on the door, and the look on her face is enough to make his voice tremble as he asks to come in.</p><p>By the time she’s closed the door, he’s sprawled sideways across the bed, face mashed into the comforter as Laila plops down next to him and pets his hair distractedly. “So what happened this time?” she asks, her voice sympathetic. Jeremy moans hopelessly. </p><p>“We had a fight. A really bad one, I think he was super freaked out by it.” He doesn’t mention the colours on his arm. He’s not sure if he really <em>can.</em> If he didn’t know until a moment ago, then Laila definitely doesn’t know.</p><p>She’s not looking at him when he rolls over to blink up at the ceiling. She’s not actually looking at anything, and that really makes him suspicious. Laila’s his go to for complaining, because she makes it feel like she’s actually interested in what he has to say. She has a weird way of looking at him until he says much more than he thinks he should have done. Only now she’s not looking.</p><p>“I think he hates me now,” he sighs, throwing a hand out and slapping his palm against her knee to get her attention. “Laila. Whatcha lookin’ at?”</p><p>She looks at him, and it’s half apologetic, half sheepish. “Nothing,” she says, after a pause that goes on a fraction too long. Jeremy narrows his eyes suspiciously.</p><p>“What’s on your mind?”</p><p>“<em>Nothing.</em>”</p><p>“Laila, as my best friend you’re legally obligated to tell me what you know,” Jeremy half-pleads, clutching at her hand. “<em>What do you know?</em>”</p><p>Laila sighs, long and exhausted, as she gives him a long-suffering look. “Look, this isn’t for you and me to talk about. You need to talk to Jean, but you need to chill out first.” </p><p>Her eyes drift to his arm, half-trapped under his body, and he bolts upright. “You know, don’t you?”</p><p>“I–”</p><p>“Laila!”</p><p>She groans and throws herself back on the bed, slapping her hands over her face. “Yes! I know! Jean was here, okay?”</p><p>The noise Jeremy makes is strangled and inhuman, and he pulls her palms away from her cheeks. “<em>What?</em>"</p><p>“He came and he was, like, asking all these questions about your mark. And then he just <em>left</em>. It didn’t take much to put that together, Jer. That’s why you <em>need</em> to go talk to him.”</p><p>Jeremy sprawls out next to her and props his head on her ribcage. He can feel the rise and fall of her breathing, hear her heart thud. When she inhales to speak, he feels the way her diaphragm tenses for a second, dragging the breath in, before she starts. “I know he’s a nice guy, but you’re not expecting anything from him, are you?”</p><p>Jeremy hesitates and mulls that one over. Is he? Because he knows all the stuff he’s ever heard or been told about soulmates; the whole cosmic bond thing, the fate and destiny arguments, that soulmates are two halves of the same whole, and apparently there will never be anyone as right for him as Jean is. It’s just that he wonders about that. He wonders whether Jean believes any of it, whether it’s even a tiny percentage true. He considers whether the 100% compatibility thing only applies to them at the start of their lives. Even if the mark comes in much later on, is their compatibility decided from the moment they’re born, and does their life affect that? Is his constant fretting over his soulmate going to be a hindrance, a sticking point in their actual relationship? Does Jean even <em>want</em> a relationship after everything that’s happened to him? Does Jeremy want one?</p><p>It’s too confusing, so he shakes his head. The only thing he knows for sure is that he doesn’t want Jean to feel any kind of obligation to react in any kind of way. If it ever happens, he wants it to come naturally. Because it’s what Jean wants and what he’s ready for. It just… aches to know that that could easily be a long way off. This is what Jeremy has been waiting for but now that it’s here, it’s so much more complicated than his young self could have imagined. </p><p>“I just want him to speak to me.” His voice hitches slightly and he swallows the thickness in his throat.</p><p>Laila’s hand finds his and holds on tightly. He hears her sigh whoosh out of her lungs. “Then go talk to him.”</p><p>She’s right, obviously. She’s almost invariably right. It annoys Jeremy sometimes. Especially when he has to go do something he does not want to do. He rolls over to bury his face in Laila’s stomach, and she strokes his hair as he whines pitifully and melodramatically. And then, once he stops complaining, she tugs lightly at one of his curls and tells him to get up. Again, she’s got a point, but it doesn’t stop Jeremy from groaning melodramatically as he drags himself onto his feet. “When it all goes wrong I’m coming back,” he warns her before he slips out the door accompanied by the sound of Laila’s laughter.</p>
<hr/><p>For a moment, he stands outside, at a loss. He doesn’t know where the hell to even start looking for Jean. He doesn’t know whether to go to court, to his therapist’s, back to their room. He debates the merits of waiting over going out looking; if he waits, it could easily be a day or two before Jean returns. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s slept at the court, but normally Jeremy at least knows where he is. This time there’s a whole city of possibilities and he’s freaking out enough as is, he doesn’t need that stress as well.</p><p>In the end, he makes for court. If he doesn’t go now, he won’t go at all, and he’s keyed up enough that he might actually manage to have a real conversation, rather than smiling his way through countless lies and half-truths. He’s greeted, when he pushes open the door, by the sound of running. Jean’s doing laps. He looks half-dead already, and the balls scattered across the floor give Jeremy an indication of what he’s been doing. He’s probably worked himself too hard, the way he always does. He does it when he thinks he has something to prove or something to make up, or when he’s just <em>done.</em> And Jeremy can take a guess at how done he might be.</p><p>He watches Jean run, watches how fast he’s running and listens to his gasping breaths until Jean comes to a halt and leans over, hands on his knees. Even from a distance he can see Jean trembling. His shoulders shake, and Jeremy’s blood runs painfully cold as he wonders if Jean is crying. Then Jean straightens up, and his eyes are dry, and Jeremy feels stupid all over again. He’s never known Jean to cry, and Jeremy isn’t going to be the thing that changes that, is he? He’s fine with that. He wouldn’t want to be.</p><p>The problem is that when he can see Jean, every bit of determination drains out of him. He doesn’t want to have the conversation, especially not now. He doesn’t want to talk through every minute interaction he and Jean have had, he doesn’t want to ask Jean how he figured it out, and he <em>really</em> doesn’t want to ask what comes next. Mostly because he doesn’t think either of them actually know.</p><p>He’s about to slip out again when Jean looks over and catches sight of him. He’s never actually seen the blood drain out of someone’s face until that moment; Jean blanches, his eyes widen, and before he can sprint off the court and disappear, Jeremy raises a hand in acknowledgement and leaves.</p><p>As he half-jogs away from the building, he’s talking to himself. He’s not exactly quiet about it, and if there were anyone else around he’d probably be getting Looks, but it’s just him and his thoughts. If they don’t get voiced, they’re going to crush his brain. <em>Shouldn’t have done that,</em> they say, and <em>now he’s never gonna feel like he can leave, you couldn’t have just waited at home?</em> The answer to that is <em>no</em>, because he’d needed to see Jean much more than he’d expected.</p><p>“Jeremy,” someone calls from behind him. He turns to see Jean standing there. His face says <em>what the fuck do you think you’re doing</em>, but his body language says <em>please don’t come near me, please don’t hurt me. </em> His eyebrows are drawn low, squinching together angrily, and his mouth is set; his shoulders are hunched and he stays more than an arm’s length away from Jeremy, gaze intent so he won’t miss a move. He doesn’t know exactly what Jean thinks he’ll do, because he never does, but he does know that if that conversation had been between Jean and Riko and Jean had stormed out on the Ravens’ captain, there would have been nothing he could have done to make up for it. As always, it’s agonising to see how Jean reverts to being afraid of him when he’s overwhelmed. Like it’s easier to cope if he can drop back into his old ways.</p><p>“Why did you leave?” Jean asks. Jeremy opens his mouth hopelessly, then closes it again and shrugs. </p><p>“Then why did you come?”</p><p>“I--” Jeremy shrugs again. The longer he stays silent, the more stressed Jean looks. He sees it and he feels awful for it, but he can’t help it, he really can’t. It’s so hard to make himself say anything when everything sounds stupid. “I just wanted to know you were alright.”</p><p>Jean’s laugh grates on every raw nerve ending in his body. It’s hardly even a laugh. “<em>Alright,</em>” he repeats, a cruel mimic of Jeremy’s accent. “Well, here I am. Alive, like you didn’t already know. So go home.”</p><p>Jeremy’s shoulder is hot, like he’s pulled a muscle, and he knows without needing to look that Jean’s anger is flooding across his skin, dark dangerous red. “Can we talk about this?” he pushes, taking a step forward. Jean steps back immediately, flinching as if Jeremy had tried to hit him, and shakes his head.</p><p>“Not now.”</p><p>It’s maybe the sweetest answer he could have given. It’s not a flat no, and it’s not a yes that would force Jeremy to actually have the conversation he’s dreading. It’s a rain check. A chance for both of them to calm down and figure out what the hell they’re going to say to each other.</p><p>“Okay.” They eyeball each other, then Jeremy smiles faintly and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll head home. You wanna come with?” He’s not expecting Jean to say yes, so he’s not offended when he shakes his head again.</p><p>“See you later then. Just don’t go too hard, okay? Look after yourself.” Jean’s already turning back towards the court but he nods, and Jeremy watches until he disappears through the doors again before he starts his walk back home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i am Sorry<br/>if its any consolation i sure did write the whole of the next chapter along with this one and then decided it was Too Long In That Format so uhh teehee?? stay tuned??</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. we’ll be fixed by someone else</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>he’s disappointed and he isn’t, he’s surprised and he isn’t.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://youtu.be/ZESSF76ELfs">

behold, a title</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jean remembers the winter banquet. The last one with Kevin at his side. </p><p>He remembers the way Jeremy had looked at Kevin. He’d looked at Kevin, his hand had flitted up to his shoulder, and Jean doesn’t think he even knew he was doing it at the time. He hadn’t looked at Jean, which was something Jean had been fairly used to by then. He hadn’t looked at Jean at all until much later on. It was immediately obvious, he remembers, that they’d been talking about him, Jeremy and the girls and a couple of the Bearcats’ backliners, because Jeremy had looked at him, he’d felt it and he’d looked in return, he’d watched Jeremy cradle his right hand strangely.<br/><br/>He remembers meeting Jeremy’s eyes, too.</p><p>Looking back on it, he finds it incredibly hard to believe that neither of them even had an inkling that something might be up. Because when their eyes <em>did</em> meet, it was as if the strings holding him down had been cut. As if, for just a second, he could have left Riko’s side, swept away on the intensity of Jeremy’s gaze, and not had to think about the consequences of crossing the distance between the Ravens’ table and the Trojans’. His survival instinct had always been better than that, though, hadn’t it, so he’d stayed put and just stared. Until Riko had decided to pitch in.</p><p>
  <em>Riko leans over as if he’s going to say something. The room is still yawing and rolling around him, the only stable point is the Trojans’ blonde striker. Jean wants to vomit. His heart is clenching so tightly it must be half the size it normally is. His wrist burns. His eyes sting from the sheer brightness of the guy’s face. He senses his captain at his side, and as Jeremy Knox moves, so does he, gaze shifting and lowering as he dips his head in acknowledgement. Shouldn’t have been staring. He’ll catch it for that later. When he looks back at Jeremy, the world is steadier again, and his mouth twists coldly. It wasn’t a real hope, he thinks, but it’s been dashed all the same.</em>
</p><hr/><p>The next few days drag and drag. Jeremy has never known anything like it. He and Jean are back to skirting politely around each other like they had at the beginning, but when Jean wakes in the middle of the night, Jeremy still sits on the end of his bed and talks to him until he falls asleep again. Some things change, and some things don’t at all. That’s one of the ones that doesn’t.</p><p>He’s never really realised how normal that’s become to them until then; he spends the days being blandly polite to Jean, dancing along the fine line between Jean’s need to be accompanied by someone and their mutual desire to wean him out of that mindset. They haven’t been like that for months. But now at night if Jean jolts awake, breathing fast and wide-eyed as he searches the room for another forgotten horror, Jeremy is at his side within minutes, and he whispers <em>can I, Jean, can I?</em> until Jean nods shakily and he can plop down on the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall, and tell Jean about dreams he’s never even had, he just invents them on the spot as a distraction.</p><p>So all things considered, when Jean sits down in their living space even though Jeremy is already there, he thinks he can be forgiven for being startled by it. He eyes Jean curiously over the edge of his laptop screen, and when Jean looks like he’s considering saying something, Jeremy closes the computer and puts it to the side. He nods encouragingly, unable to stop himself from flashing Jean a smile designed to set him at ease and make him <em>want</em> to talk. It’s a practised move at this point.</p><p>And Jean is wise to it, so he just stares until Jeremy’s smile diminishes into something more tentative and more genuine. The silence is intense, but not quite oppressive. They’re just sizing each other up, trying to figure out where the other’s head is. At least that’s what Jeremy’s doing. It’s always hard to tell what Jean is thinking.</p><p>“So,” Jeremy starts when it becomes apparent that Jean isn’t going to. “You okay to talk about it now?”</p><p>Jean shrugs a little moodily. “I think we should.”</p><p>It’s not… It’s not an encouraging start by any stretch, but it’s something. It’s still a start. Jeremy takes a very deep breath and sits with it in his lungs for a couple of seconds before he lets it back out. “How did you figure it out?” Maybe it’s too sudden, because Jean jolts faintly, but all he can do about that is shrug apologetically.</p><p>“Your mark. The yellow.” Jean pauses, his jaw working for a second. “I asked Laila and Sara.”</p><p>Well, yeah. Jeremy can’t even <em>imagine</em> how that conversation went down. He makes a mental note to ask at some point. “You asked them about me?”</p><p>“About your arm,” Jean corrects. “I know about you.”</p><p>He does. Jean knows a lot about him, really. And yeah, he knows a lot about Jean too, but he always manages to feel at a disadvantage in that regard. He’s very open and Jean is very not. It’s neither of their faults.</p><p>He considers the fact that Jean actually <em>asked a semi-personal question.</em> It’s… well, look, he doesn’t want to say endearing because he knows Jean would kill him for it with no questions asked, but he sure as hell is thinking it. What he’s thinking is his own business. As long as it doesn’t show on Jean’s hand, that is.</p><p>Unfortunately for him, it becomes very clear that there’s a hint of tentative happiness on Jean’s skin. If Jean were more tanned, it would blend in, but as it is it’s like weak winter sunlight breaking through pale snow clouds. It paints his wrist a gentle, practically imperceptible yellow. </p><p>He considers this for long enough that Jean starts talking again, looking faintly uncomfortable with Jeremy’s uncharacteristic silence. “They told me you got it a long time ago.”</p><p>Jeremy nods. “I was, like, twelve? It was green.”</p><p>“Like that tie.”</p><p>“Yeah. Then it <em>changed</em>. Few months later. You were so… God, Jean.” The look on Jean’s face shuts him up <em>real fast.</em> His mouth is pinched tightly at the corners and his eyes are turned away from Jeremy’s. It looks like he doesn’t want to continue the conversation, except he continues it anyway.</p><p>“I know. I left France.” He doesn’t say <em>home</em>, Jeremy notices. That tugs at his chest a little. Does Jean even remember France that well? He hasn’t called anywhere home, and Jeremy has always thought that would be because his home country <em>was</em> his home, but maybe he’s wrong. Maybe he just hasn’t felt at home.</p><p>“I just wanted to find you so bad,” Jeremy pushes on, trying not to see the look on Jean’s face or the colours sweeping across his skin. It’s not fair to Jean to have his emotions betrayed on Jeremy’s arm, just the same as it’s not fair to Jeremy to have his own published like that. None of this is fair, though.</p><p>The bitter laugh Jean lets out scorches every one of his raw nerve endings. “You found me. Now what?”</p><p>“Now? I don’t know. What do you want?” </p><p>Every time he asks Jean that question, it’s like the first time anyone has asked him. He blinks at Jeremy as if he doesn’t know what he’s just said. This time, Jeremy sits and he waits, because giving Jean the chance to actually say what he wants is <em>important.</em></p><p>“I want…” He trails off for a second, his mouth opening and closing as words fail him. “What do <em>you</em> want?” It comes out almost cruel, he spits the words out and Jeremy steadfastly refuses to flinch because he knows by now that it’s just how Jean reacts.</p><p>“I want this to not affect anything. I want to keep going like we are. I’m not exactly gonna ask you to just, like, fucking <em>jump</em> into dating.”</p><p>Jean eyes him so suspiciously it’s almost offensive. “Do you want to date?” he says finally, and Jeremy nearly chokes on his tongue. </p><p>“That— that’s not the <em>point!</em>” he splutters. </p><p>“Yes it is.”</p><p>“No, it’s <em>not!</em>”</p><p>“Yes, Jeremy, it’s at least half the point,” Jean snaps. “There are two of us in this situation, and what you want matters at <em>least</em> as much as what I want.”</p><p>Jeremy mouths several expletives silently as he gapes at Jean. “I-I <em>guess?</em> I mean, yeah, you’re, like, hot and weirdly funny and all that, so sure, I wouldn’t <em>mind</em> eventually dating you if you wanted to.”</p><p>“Then fucking say it. I’m not made of glass, I can handle you telling me you want a relationship without breaking down.” Huh. He’s mad again. <em>Good going, Jeremy.</em> He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t treat Jean like he’s breakable, but that’s exactly what he’s ended up doing because he’s an <em>idiot</em>.</p><p>“I’m— I’m sorry. This just <em>really</em> isn’t my area, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.” </p><p>“And I do?” At least he doesn’t sound mad this time. Just tired. That might be worse. </p><p>“No. Neither of us do, right?” Jeremy sighs as he sinks into the couch, leaning his head back and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he drops them again, Jean is watching him with a strange expression on his face. He straightens up almost immediately, conscious of the fact that he looks <em>incredibly</em> stressed out and that’s probably not helpful right now. “Are you—”</p><p>Jean leans forward, cutting him off with slightly too-dry, faintly chapped lips pressed against his own. He keeps his hands at his sides, his eyes wide and shocked. It’s so fucking awkward, because Jean is holding his gaze, and the kiss is terrible and weird and all he can do is sit still until Jean draws back again. Now the look on his face is bleeding through into anxiety, nerves betraying him; Jeremy hates to see it, so he smiles. Neither of them look at the tension mirrored in both of their marks.</p><p>“Can I?” he asks very quietly, a question he’s more than used to asking by now, gesturing to his own mouth. Jean nods. He looks haunted.</p><p>Jeremy leans in again, raising a hand to settle very lightly on Jean’s upper arm, and tips his chin up. This time it’s… well, it’s better, at least. He sweeps his thumb in gentle arcs over Jean’s arm until Jean’s eyes close, then tilts his head a little, and that’s it. That’s the right angle. They mould together like they’re meant to, which they kind of <em>are,</em> right? One of Jean’s hands lands on his waist and he shivers under its weight; before Jean can pull away to ask about the reaction - because he will and Jeremy knows he will - he nudges a little closer, reassures him with another kiss that blends seamlessly into the first.</p><p>When the kiss ends, they breathe in each other’s air for a second before Jeremy sits back. Jean’s mouth is half open, he blinks at Jeremy in surprise, and Jeremy knows without looking that Jean’s mark has exploded into brilliant yellow. This time his smile is real. “Was that alright?”</p><p>Jean nods very slowly, hesitant as if admitting he liked it will bring terrible consequences down on his head. Which it probably would have done, at one point. But now Jeremy just grins wider and nods as well. “Same.” </p><p>They sit in silence for a moment, and then, when the look on Jean’s face starts to shift to anxious again, Jeremy shakes his head, reaches out to touch Jean’s wrist. “Just a kiss, Jean. We’re, like, thirty thousand words into a fifty thousand word book. We have so much time to be soulmates, okay? Let’s take it slow.”</p><p>It’s hard to miss how Jean relaxes. Even if he hadn’t seen it, the colours on Jeremy’s arm even out into something serene, a swirl of blues and yellows and even some greens that make him smile. It’s like the storm that had been brewing has been blown away. Maybe there’s another on the horizon, but for now there are clear skies and the air has lightened. Jean slides his hand from Jeremy’s waist to his arm and he holds onto his wrist with a grip that <em>just</em> borders on too tight. Jeremy doesn’t let that show, and that’s the right move.</p><p>For a few minutes, they stay like that, holding onto each other and soaking in the comfort of that shared touch. It’s Jean who moves first again; as if drawn to Jeremy, he leans down and Jeremy leans too. He feels Jean’s other hand settle on the side of his neck, but he’s far too focused on how warm Jean’s mouth is as it slides over his own, traps his lower lip for a second, then withdraws as quickly as it had come. His eyes open - when had they closed? - and Jean is watching his expression so he doesn’t try to censor the slightly dazed smile that drifts over his face. He’s so fucking proud of how bold Jean must be feeling to let himself do that.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to touch a piece of Jean’s hair very gently. Jean flinches back, then stills, and his nostrils flare in fear. But he doesn’t throw himself off the couch like he had the first time Jeremy had tried to touch him after he’d arrived, so that counts for something.</p><p>“You wanna talk to me? Or someone else?”</p><p>Jean thinks about it for a second; Jeremy <em>sees</em> his mind working. Then he draws away completely, disentangles the two of them very carefully, and stands up. “Kevin.”</p><p>Jeremy knows Jean and Kevin are not what anyone would call friends. The fact that he’s calling Kevin, then, means that this is Ravens-related. He can’t quite help the pang of sadness that plucks at his chest. Of everything Jean now knows he can talk to Jeremy about, he still doesn’t talk about Edgar Allan. Not really. But it’s not really Jeremy’s place to be sad about that, is it? Kevin knows better than anyone what happened there, and Jean isn’t the kind of person to just spill his guts about things like that.</p><p>“I’ll go out,” he says, hopping off the couch before Jean protests. Probably calling his mom would be good for him.</p><hr/><p>She picks up almost immediately. Jeremy doesn’t call without warning unless there’s something up. They have a scheduled FaceTime every few weeks where his sisters can monopolise the conversation. He and his dad exclusively communicate through text. So when he calls Maritsa in the middle of the day without texting first, her voice is panicked and she asks him a million questions before he has even opened his mouth.</p><p>“Mamà, I’m fine,” he tells her when he can get a word in. “I’m okay. I just need to talk.”</p><p>It’s harder than he’d expected to actually <em>start</em> talking. He doesn’t even know where to begin. It’s a whole thing, it’s a whole mess, and he feels so weird about it. So weird. He tells her everything, and at some point he thinks he cries, because his eyes are stinging when he stops to draw breath, but his face is still dry so maybe he’s just starting to panic. He likes Jean so much, he hadn’t even <em>realised</em> quite how important Jean has become to him, but now that the idea of weirdness between them has been planted in his mind he’s spooked and it’s making his skin crawl. He’s worked way too hard, he and Jean both have, for this to be the thing that fucks it all up. That doesn’t sound fair at all.</p><p>His mother sighs sadly. It crackles over the phone and he’s suddenly glad he can’t see her. He doesn’t think he could stand seeing the sadness and disappointment on her face. Disappointment because he’s been fighting for his soulmate for half his life, and now it feels even to Jeremy like he’s giving up the fight.</p><p>“Come on. Take a deep breath, cariño, let’s talk about this.” Her voice is so calm, it’s relaxing despite Jeremy’s turmoil. And there’s a lot of turmoil.</p><p>“You want this?”</p><p>“Si.”</p><p>“And you’re willing to give him time?”</p><p>Jeremy splutters. “Of <em>course!</em>”</p><p>“Then give him time. Be there as his friend first. Let him make the moves when he’s ready.”</p><p>“But what if…” he trails off abruptly and shakes his head, just once. “What if he moves too fast because he’s worried about me?”</p><p>His mom is silent for a long moment. He feels bad unloading this onto her. This isn’t either of their areas of expertise. “Then you need to remember to check in on him. Don’t treat him like he doesn’t know what’s best for him. Just make sure he’s as comfortable as he can be. Sometimes you have to step out of your comfort zone to get comfortable. You understand?”</p><p>He does understand. He nods before he realises she can’t see. “I get it.”</p><p>“It’s not going to be easy, mi amor. It never is. But he’s in a better place now, and he just needs support. Don’t give up.” Jeremy draws in an indignant breath, then blows it out; she’s not saying what everyone else has been saying, she’s telling him not to give up hope. It’s different. It’s better.</p><hr/><p>“C’est lui, c’est <em>Jeremy.</em> Je ne peux pas imaginer, Kevin. Je ne sais pas comment être prêt.”</p><p>Jean is silent for a long moment. Jeremy can’t hear Kevin. He hovers in the doorway for a long minute, until Jean speaks again just as he’s about to move, announce himself.</p><p>“Oui. Non, je comprends.” A beat. “Arrête. Je me fous complètement de Thea. Ce qu'il m’a fait, c’est différent.” He doesn’t sound mad, but Jeremy knows sharp words when he hears them, especially from Jean.</p><p>“Fine. Go.” Jeremy gives him another minute, then, when Jean sighs, closes the door a little louder than usual.</p><p>“Hey,” he calls, feeling impossibly guilty about semi-eavesdropping. As he rounds the corner, Jean looks up. The tired look on his face melts into something closer to relaxation. Like he hadn’t realised something was missing until Jeremy returned and he figured out it was <em>Jeremy</em> missing. Jeremy knows how that feels. </p><p>He plops down onto the couch next to Jean, leans over to open his laptop and, when Jean’s hand twitches a little closer to him, hooks their pinky fingers together. </p><p>“30k,” he says quietly.</p><p>Jean nods. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>god what a fucking ballache this chapter was to spew out<br/>i would apologise for lateness but quite frankly work is hard and i am tired xx<br/><a href="https://jeanmoreaun.tumblr.com"> tell me i’m garbage</a></p><p>vis à vis le français:<br/>C’est lui, c’est Jeremy. Je ne peux pas imaginer, Kevin. Je ne sais pas comment être prêt. - It’s him, it’s Jeremy. I can’t imagine, Kevin. I don’t know how to be ready.<br/>Oui. Non, je comprends. - Yes. No, I understand.<br/>Arrête. Je me fous complètement de Thea. Ce qu'il m’a fait, c’est différent. - Stop. I don’t give a fuck about Thea. What he did to me, it’s different.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. think too much of the end and we will never start</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>time was what jean needed, and time is still what jean needs</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>uhhhhhhhhhhh surprise bitch bet you thought youd seen the last of me x</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTPBU7gGX9c&amp;ab_channel=MIKA-Topic">title</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s hard not to want to hear more from Jean. Not to want to hear what’s going through his mind all the time. Just because Jeremy can see it, doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s not the kind of person to stare at his arm and see what Jean is thinking, because that feels like an invasion of his privacy, and Jean is far too intensely private for him to do that. That’s not fair.</p><p>None of this is fair, to be honest, but that’s not the point.</p><p>And another thing he really doesn’t like is the fact that Laila and Sara are treating him a little differently. Not that differently, but a bit. Enough that it makes him feel weird about being around them. That’s not fair either. They’re his best friends, he relies so much on them, but he doesn’t talk to them about this. He <em>can’t.</em> God, it’s so hard.</p><p>He and Jean are being careful around each other too. Like, obviously they are. How could they not be, when shit has collapsed around them and they don’t know how to put it all back together. Where to start. Jeremy’s used to feeling uncertain, but he’s not used to feeling out of his depth. Especially not when there’s little he can do about it. He just has to wait for Jean to be ready to talk to him.</p><p>Jean, however, is real good at not talking. <em>Real</em> good. Jeremy knows this objectively, right, but there’s a big ass difference between knowing that and seeing it when it’s about him.</p><p>It’s sort of impressive that he lasts as long as he does. It’s longer than the last time they went without talking about something, and considering the fact that said last time culminated in kissing, it’s actually <em>really</em> impressive that he manages to hang in there for a week. Probably it helps that they’re not dancing and dodging around one another. The thing is that they’re not talking about it, but they’re also not <em>avoiding</em> it. They’re just existing together, and even though at some points that gets weird and confusing, Jeremy does manage to bring that feeling back under control before it swallows him. He only has to remind himself that Jean does struggle sometimes. Jean rarely knows how to start heavy conversations, and it’s even more rare that he actually <em>does</em> start them. He’s a master of pretence.</p><p>Problem is, Jeremy is as well. He’s very good at looking like nothing is wrong. He could have the weight of the world on his shoulders and he’ll smile and shrug and say <em>can’t be helped,</em> or <em>it’ll be fine,</em> and people will genuinely believe that the weight isn’t crushing him. People who aren’t his friends, that is. Jean knows, because of course he does. Laila knows. Sara knows. But when he’s asked, he smiles and shrugs. He says <em>don’t worry about me</em> and he changes the subject. It works. It works and it pisses Jean off.</p><p>There’s one flaw in Jeremy’s perfect plan. Jean’s soulmark. He gets increasingly irritated by the way, every time he says he’s fine, that Jean’s gaze slides downwards, fixes on his wrist for a second. Maybe Jean doesn’t know he's doing it. In fact, he probably doesn’t. But he <em>is</em> doing it. Jeremy is getting pretty fucking tired of that.</p><p>The constant thought that soulmarks are meant to be a good thing always preys on him - they’re meant to be a way to know how much your soulmate cares about you without having to say it, a way to help when things are bad. Both he and Jean see when things are bad and then say nothing about it, and that’s stupid. It sucks. </p><p>Still, it takes a while for him to snap. He doesn’t snap until he’s already in a shitty mood. All things considered, not a good time to rip into Jean. But all the poor guy has to do is ask him how he is, and Jeremy, who’s tense and sad and anxious about his midterms, opens his mouth and just spills his guts.</p><p>He can feel, in the way his tongue burns, how acidic his words are. He sees on Jean’s face how heavily they land, how they slide under his skin like barbs and lodge there. He can’t pull them back out without hurting Jean again. And Jean? He just goes silent. He clams up. Jean sits, head bowed, he lets Jeremy blow off steam until the tank is empty and Jeremy sags like a deflated balloon, then rises to his feet and leaves the dorm. He leaves Jeremy feeling worse than he had before.</p><p><em>You don’t understand. Don’t look at me like that. I know you don’t get it, Jean. I want to be okay with that but it’s so fucking unfair that I’m the one who has to pretend I know what the fuck I’m doing, I have to act like nothing is different and nothing needs to be different when you’re my fucking soulmate. All I want is for you to be able to be that. I know he hurt you. I just… I don’t know how to make that better. I don’t even know if you want me to make it better half the time. I hate it. I can’t tell whether or not you want this anymore. Have I lost my fucking shine? Things aren’t new and now you’re realising I’m annoying and dumb and not what you want at all? Just </em>tell me<em>, Jean.</em></p><p>Jean does not tell him. Unsurprisingly.</p><p>What Jean does do is disappear. For hours and hours.</p><p>Jeremy’s mood fluctuates. He spends a couple of those hours staring at the wall blankly. He spends a couple more pacing in tight angry circles while his blood boils in his veins. And then he ends up watching the last of the daylight fade from the sky, perched on the windowsill with one leg hanging down, cheek pressed against sun-warmed, rapidly cooling glass. Maybe he’s watching for Jean’s return. Maybe he’s just watching the world continue to turn. He keeps his sleeves pulled over his hands. At some point, he dozes off, waking up only when the door opens. </p><p>Jean stands silhouetted in the doorway. Jeremy blinks, because it’s dark and the hallway light is blinding, and it takes him a couple of seconds between that and the headache he always gets after a nap to piece together that Jean is back. He scrambles off the windowsill, and his legs give out underneath him the second his feet hit the ground. With a couple of muttered curses, he’s upright again. Jean makes no move at all to help him out. Obviously. He does snap the light on though. That does nothing but compound Jeremy’s still bad mood.</p><p>“I’m going to bed,” he says much more calmly than he feels. He watches how Jean’s hands curl into fists at his sides. Maybe he feels bad about it, but honestly after everything he’s already said, there isn’t much more to say. Today isn’t the day to hash it out. Today is the day to go to sleep. <em>Don’t sleep on an argument</em> only goes so far; when they’re both tired and kind of shellshocked from Jeremy’s outburst, it would be dumb as hell to keep going. So, despite that nagging thought that tells him to stay and talk to Jean, he doesn’t. He heads for their bedroom and ignores Jean still standing by the door.</p><p>It’s a good few hours before he hears Jean pad almost silently into the bedroom as well. He hasn’t slept for a single one of those hours. Despite anxiety and regret buzzing in his head, his tired eyes, sore from staring at nothing, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t alert Jean to the fact that he’s still awake. Jean stares at him in the darkness for a long moment, then he rolls over in his bed and Jeremy misses the intense gaze.</p><p>Jean is already gone when he wakes up the next morning.</p><hr/><p>He apologises that evening. He waits up despite a pounding headache and eyes stinging with tiredness. He waits for Jean to let himself back in and when the door opens very quietly, just as he’s about to give up, he bounds off the couch so quick that Jean steps backwards out of the room again, shocked.</p><p>“Jean, please can we talk?”</p><p>It’s hard to miss the way Jean’s jaw ticks faintly. He keeps his head down and shoulders hunched. </p><p>That’s what really upsets him. He recognises that body language. And it’s his fault that Jean has fallen back into it. He lashed out and now he’s paying for that and it feels unfair but at the same time <em>everything</em> is unfair. The fact that Jean flinches when Jeremy is mad even if it’s not directed at him, the nights Jeremy spends listening to harsh breathing and wishing he could comfort Jean. None of that is fair by anyone’s estimation. </p><p>“I’m tired,” Jean says. Jeremy nearly laughs; aren’t they both? In every possible way?</p><p>“Please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” The discomfited look he gets gives him a moment’s pause, but he pushes on. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”</p><p>His voice is trembling a little. God, that sucks. </p><p>“It wasn’t fair to ask you that.”</p><p>“You wanted an answer,” Jean points out carefully.</p><p>“That doesn’t mean I should have <em>yelled.</em>I feel so bad for that. I know it’s not your fault-“</p><p>Jean snorts. “You said that yesterday.”</p><p>“No, I didn’t. I said you didn’t get it. But, like, that’s normally fine with me. I can pretend to know what the hell I’m meant to be doing here. It just, it sometimes feels like it’s too hard to pretend. Like I can’t do it.”</p><p>It’s quiet for a moment. <em>So quiet.</em></p><p>“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Jean says softly. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this. For <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Jeremy blinks. It’s so honest. It’s so open. It’s so unlike Jean. He doesn’t speak.</p><p>“I want to be okay, Jeremy.” The way he says Jeremy’s name still strikes him every time. He’s so gentle when he says it. There’s no harsh <em>J</em> sound. “I can’t just be sunshine and rainbows. That’s not how this works.”</p><p>Jeremy nods and his heart squeezes painfully.</p><p>“But,” Jean continues very carefully, “I want to try. I do.”</p><p>The band in his chest breaks. It bursts open so violently that Jeremy sucks in a breath so deep it’s like he’s been starving for oxygen all day. “Really?” he asks; it’s pathetic how small his voice is. </p><p>Jean hates when Jeremy second-guesses him. He smiles at the annoyed look he gets for it.</p><p>“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”</p><p>Jeremy eases a little closer, careful and deliberate, slow enough that Jean can back up if he wants to. “I’m gonna hug you now.” Because god, he needs it. He needs to touch. He needs Jean’s warmth under his hand and to know this is real.</p><p>It’s unnerving how easily they could have settled into ignoring each other again. Or, no, not quite ignoring each other. Just not really speaking about anything important. How they went from that to this - Jean’s hand very gentle on Jeremy’s ribs, Jeremy leaning up on his tiptoes, steadying himself with a hand on Jean’s forearm, as he loops his other arm around Jean’s shoulder and rests his chin on his shoulder - is kind of beyond him. And even though Jean is so stiff he’s almost vibrating with tension, he doesn’t shove Jeremy back, and that’s a step in the right direction. </p><hr/><p>He doesn’t really notice when Jean starts to uncurl again. When Jean’s shoulders relax just a little, when his clenched jaw becomes less clenched, sharp lines less pronounced. Maybe because he’s seen it before, maybe because Jean doesn’t exactly draw any attention to it. Things just settle back into their version of normal and they carry on as they were before everything. Almost like they didn’t even have The Talk. Like they don’t know.</p><p>It’s kind of comforting, in a way. It’s a nice return to a normal Jeremy knows and is used to. Just because it’s not his favourite way to be, that doesn’t make it less okay with him. He carries on, Jean carries on, and they both pretend things haven’t almost irreparably changed.</p><p>Only they have. It’s not a bad change, not entirely, but it sure is a change. Jean accepts light touches now. He glares at Jeremy afterwards if he’s feeling particularly prickly, but he doesn’t shove him away. Jeremy pats Jean on the shoulder on his way out of the door; he doesn’t flinch away and stumble over apologies when their fingers brush as he passes something over; he’s even confident enough to do things like straighten Jean’s jacket if Jean’s hands are full and it’s an okay day. Jean tolerates it the way a cat tolerates being loved; by allowing it until he’s over it. That’s good enough.</p><p>There’s just one thing. He hates Jean’s tattoo. Like, he hopes Jean hates it more - although he’s not entirely sure about that, because conditioning is still much stronger than the slow process of recovery - but he <em>really</em> hates to see it. He ignores that for Jean’s sake. It’s just always there at the back of his mind. One day he catches Jean staring in the mirror with a sick look on his face while waiting for Jeremy to get his stuff together.</p><p>They’re already running late to get to court for warmups before the game, but he drops his sneakers and tows Jean away from the mirror to make him sit. Jean protests just once.</p><p>“Sit. We’re always early, they can wait for us for once.”</p><p>And even though they’re definitely not early this time, Jean sits down to let Jeremy do whatever half baked idea he has. The only thing he can find is a felt tip pen, but it’s the weekend so Jean has time to wash it off. He’ll buy an eyeliner or something later. He perches lightly on the edge of the coffee table in front of Jean, cocking his head faintly to the side as he uncaps the pen. </p><p>The unnerved look Jean gives him makes his chest swell with fondness, because he looks nervous but he doesn’t move away. Not even when Jeremy raises the pen to his face. That’s a fucking lot of trust that he doesn’t feel entirely worthy of.</p><p><b>3 </b> turns easily into <b>E. </b>Even if it is backwards. When Jeremy sits back again, Jean has his own name inked as neatly as possible on his cheekbone. </p><p>“Next time I’ll get creative,” he promises, “but we don’t have time today.”</p><p>Jean glances in the mirror on his way out. Jeremy sees how he stills, hears the sharp intake of breath, and watches as Jean raises his hand to touch the letters. He wonders what it must be to see that; Riko’s claim on him covered up like that. Jean’s name is something that’s very much his own. Hopefully, he thinks, it’s a reminder that he’s his own person now. He doesn’t belong to the Moriyamas and he sure as hell doesn’t belong to Jeremy.</p><p>Jeremy’s chest aches and he smiles. Soft green threads wrap their way around his wrist.</p><p>Jean absolutely destroys their defence at practice that day and Jeremy is so proud he could burst. It’s even better when he squeezes Jean’s shoulder affectionately and smiles and Jean doesn’t leap away from him. That feels pretty good too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chap is short and sweet and no one can make me apologise</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. a soul that's born in cold and rain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>it's not him who leans in first</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>happy holidays tout le monde</p>
<p>my new year's resolution is to finally finish this monster</p>
<p>my sons deserve their sappy happy ending</p>
<p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PELeEo33JXs&amp;ab_channel=HozierVEVO">your title monsieur</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Progress is slow. Painfully so. Yes, that’s to be expected after how quickly things have evolved so far, but still. They come to another standstill. They’re talking more, Jeremy can touch Jean and Jean won’t shove him away or startle too badly, and yes it’s good, but it’s also like walking on eggshells. They’re both still toeing a line they aren’t ready to cross.</p>
<p>The day after his last midterm dawns bright and clear. Jeremy knows the second he opens their bedroom window that it’s going to be hot. Jean, obviously, is long gone. It’s almost nine so he’s probably on his way back from court by now. He’s gotten much better at not getting up at four; now it’s closer to five when Jeremy hears him rise.</p>
<p>Jeremy used to be a heavy sleeper. The combination of Exy and school used to ensure he would be able to sleep through a nuclear blast. But now? Not so much. Now he jumps awake at the first shift in Jean’s breathing. He reflects, as he munches idly on his cereal, on how Jean still sneaks out. As if he thinks Jeremy is still sleeping. There’s no way he doesn’t know the truth, not least because he can see it on his skin when Jeremy is awake, but he still moves silently and gets out quickly.</p>
<p>The door opens and Jeremy blinks at the relief he sees trickle across his skin. Like Jean is coming <em>home</em> and is happy to be there. Jean is someone who doesn’t have a home - at least not somewhere he calls home, not to Jeremy's knowledge - so Jeremy takes a second to soak in that weird relieved moment before he turns to face Jean with a grin. “Good practice?” He knows Jean’s been running Raven drills, because he always does, and more often than not Jean comes home from those shaking and exhausted thanks to his deeply ingrained drive to push himself too far too fast. He braces himself slightly for some kind of evidence that that is what's happened again.</p>
<p>This time, Jean just nods. There’s no hint of the pinching at the corners of his mouth, nor of the line that settles between his eyebrows when he’s tired and defensive. He settles into the couch with a sigh and leans his head back, closing his eyes as he stretches his legs out into the sunlight slanting through the window. “Good practice,” he agrees. Satisfaction resonates through his voice. It surprises both of them, Jeremy thinks. He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. It's a beautiful day and Jean is in a good mood, so he won't question it. He plops down onto the couch next to Jean, and jumps when Jean turns his hand up to show him the lack of new blisters on his palm. It's something he’d started insisting on a few months back, tired of Jean coming back from his morning drills with new blisters or old ones ripped open from working too hard. It’s also the first time Jean has done it before he asks. </p>
<p>“Thanks,” he murmurs. Jean slides him a <em>very</em> faintly amused glance under his eyelashes, and the corner of his mouth twitches as he shrugs. “Wanna do something fun today?” This time the look he gets is suspicious. Honestly, he can’t really blame Jean. God knows what his idea of something fun actually is. God knows how many times he’s been asked that for the wrong reasons. </p>
<p>So he hastens to assuage those doubts in both of them before they can take a concrete form and shit all over his vitamin-D induced good mood. “Let’s go to the beach.” </p>
<p>The mental strength it takes not to make a terrible Vine reference that Jean won’t get is, in his opinion, absolutely saint-like, but somehow he manages it.</p>
<p>Jean’s face twitches weirdly, like he wasn’t expecting Jeremy to say that, and his expression when it smooths out is indecipherable. That’s not to say he doesn’t look as unimpressed as always, because Jean’s default emotion when Jeremy talks is unimpressed, it’s the words <em>what, pray tell, the fuck?</em> that had sent Jeremy into a fit of cackles the first time they had slipped out of Jean’s mouth. But, and he doesn’t need to look down to confirm this, it very gradually eases into something calmer. And then Jean nods. He <em>nods</em>!</p>
<p>Jean hasn’t been anywhere near the beach since he arrived. Which means that Jeremy also hasn’t, because when everyone else went back in September, trying to soak up the last of the truly warm weather, he had stayed on campus with Jean and tried to learn some basic French from online forums while Jean stared at the wall in awful uncomfortable silence. He doesn’t know if it’s something to do with his past - he’d googled Marseille once, so he knows it’s by the sea. That probably has a hell of a lot to do with it, if he’s being realistic, but beyond the abstract notion of <em>something,</em> he doesn’t know what’s going on in Jean’s mind when Jeremy suggests the beach.</p>
<p>He knows much better than to suggest swimsuits; the baby steps they’ve been taking are even smaller than baby steps, honestly, they’re more like tectonic plate movement. Slow, even, they're progress takes <em>millennia</em> to show, but there is definitely progress. And that, in Jeremy’s opinion, is the most important thing.</p>
<p>Jean is rooted to the spot the whole time Jeremy is getting a bag ready (not that he needs much, seeing as he doesn’t reckon they’ll be there all that long). A few months ago, that would have been cause for concern. As it is, he works around it, stuffing a towel and a speaker into his backpack and sliding his feet into sandals with only a couple of glances towards Jean to make sure he’s not breaking down or something. Which he isn’t. Actually, he looks remarkably okay with this half-cooked plan. Jeremy hasn’t exactly planned further than <em>get Jean in the sun</em> and it very much shows when he realises that all he can think to pack is his aforementioned towel and speaker. A book doesn’t take up that much more space. Maybe he doesn’t need a whole backpack. He tugs a cap down over his hair, delights in the scathing look Jean sweeps over him from head to toe when he reappears in the doorway of their bedroom, and pushes his sunglasses onto his nose before he picks up his car keys. “Ready?”</p><hr/>
<p>It is <em>so warm.</em> Jeremy has to stand and bask in the sun like a lizard for a good minute and a half when he steps out into the parking lot. He resists the urge to lift his arms and spin around like he’s in the Sound of Music, but it’s a very close call. Only Jean’s solid presence at his side keeps him reined in. He can tell Jean is enjoying the warmth, too, despite his stoic expression and the way he blinks in the light. The only pair of sunglasses between them is currently perched on Jeremy’s nose, and without a thought he switches them onto Jean’s slightly crooked one instead. Without waiting for Jean to protest, he hitches his bag up and tucks a thumb into the strap, heading for the car. Jean is following him, he can tell, but there isn’t a word of argument against the glasses. Jeremy has won that one.</p>
<p>His winning streak lasts the whole drive. Jean lets him roll the windows down, lets him put the radio on, and even leans his head against the door to let the air whip across his face. He clearly thinks Jeremy isn’t looking, but that’s his mistake, because Jeremy has just enough disregard for perfect and safe driving technique that he glances over at least twice. Just to see Jean’s soft expression; for once, calm with nothing brewing under the surface. As if the wind is blowing away a few cobwebs. It probably is.</p>
<p>It’s lucky Jeremy’s lived here as long as he has, because the main parking lot is full. Almost completely full. And he can see the tension that grips Jean, wracking him like a fit of coughs would, his shoulders tight and hunching slightly when a child screams its delight at the sight of the ocean. Very quietly, Jeremy abandons the space he’s been debating squeezing the car into. And instead, he leaves the lot. A few more minutes of driving will be worth having a stretch of sand pretty much to themselves.</p>
<p>And it is. It is so worth it. Jean climbs out of Jeremy’s small car, unfolds like a sunflower turning towards the light, and Jeremy is so desperate to take a photo of his face when he looks around, just to remember it forever. He doesn’t have to look at his skin to know what colour it is. Jean’s cautious happiness shines through the cracks in his carefully calculated shell like the sunlight around them. He <em>likes</em> the beach, Jeremy realises with a start. Which makes it all the more painful that he hasn’t wanted to come before now. They could have been doing this since the fall. If it weren't for everything; if it weren't for Riko; if it weren't for Jean's past. If it weren't for the things that had brought Jean to him. He wouldn't have met Jean if those moments that had led him there had never happened, and he wishes with all his heart that Jean hadn't had to go through that trauma. He must be one of the only people who wish they'd never gotten to meet their soulmate. </p>
<p>He reaches forward, making sure Jean sees the movement, and although pale eyes watch him closely Jean doesn’t actually complain when Jeremy wraps an arm around his back. “Good?” he asks quietly.</p>
<p>Jean nods.</p>
<p>And then he is very clearly done with whatever this gentle, quiet moment is, because he moves away to let Jeremy’s arm drop to his side again, sneakers sinking into soft sand the moment he reaches the edge of the concrete lot.</p>
<p>For a second, with the sun sparkling off the sea and shining into Jeremy’s eyes, Jean has a halo. He is silhouetted against the crystal clear sky, staring across the beach with his back to Jeremy. The motion of his breathing is almost imperceptible; if he weren’t staring, Jeremy might not have seen his shoulders rise and fall. He is solid and implacable, and yet somehow he belongs there, with the liquid tumble and crash of the waves, the constantly dancing sunlight, the breeze carrying the sounds of traffic and people towards them. That breeze catches a couple of strands of Jean’s hair, pulling them over to the wrong side, and that’s what moves him to stir and break the moment. He glances over his shoulder at Jeremy, and for a second the corner of his lips twitch up (no doubt because Jeremy can <em>feel</em>that his own mouth is half-open as he stares) then he turns back and starts across the sand. His hands drive deep into his pockets. It’s a movement Jeremy recognises as a way to hide when his fingers are trembling. So he hurries a little, picks up the pace until he’s walking next to Jean.</p>
<p>He lets Jean pick out a place to sit, because he knows wherever he throws himself down, Jean won’t like it for some reason and he doesn’t mind wandering around for a bit until Jean figures it out. When Jean does eventually stop, Jeremy drops his bag and slips his shoes off before Jean can overthink. </p>
<p>“Awesome.” He plops down onto the sand, then immediately regrets it. A puff of sand comes up and makes its way immediately onto every inch of bare skin. He resigns himself to being uncomfortable for the rest of the day. It’s kinda worth it, considering the affectionate half-smile that plays on Jean’s mouth as he lowers himself down to sit next to Jeremy.</p>
<p>Jeremy drags his speaker out of his bag and hooks his phone up to it, picking his book up. He pauses. </p>
<p>“This isn’t my book.” And he laughs, passes it over to Jean, flops backwards into the sand with a very heavy sigh. “I can’t read fucking French.”</p><hr/>
<p>When he returns from the water almost an hour later, Jean is poring over the book in his lap. He wonders, absently, how long it’s been since Jean was allowed to read in his own language. Probably a hell of a long time, judging by the small frustrated pinch between Jean’s eyebrows. He plops down onto the ground and shakes his head, sending water flying from his hair and all over Jean.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” he says unapologetically. Jean flips him off without looking up. He laughs. “Read to me.”</p>
<p>“<em>Je la comparerais à un soleil noir,</em>” Jean says, and the words roll off his tongue easily, belying the look on his face a second ago, “<em>si l’on pouvait concevoir un astre noir versant la lumière et le bonheur.</em>”</p><hr/>
<p>Neither of them quite realise that it’s getting late until the sun is sinking low, lancing red beams across the sea and over Jeremy’s face. Until Jean is squinting to read the words on the page, and when he lifts his head the sun finds its way directly into his eyes, simultaneously more gentle and more intense than before. He nudges Jeremy with his knee, breaking him out of his reverie more effectively than the pause in his reading had done. Jeremy blinks, then pushes himself up onto one elbow and looks around.</p>
<p>“It’s getting dark,” he says, pointlessly. Jean snorts and rolls his eyes, closing the book carefully.</p>
<p>“It’s getting <em>late</em>.”</p>
<p>“I think I fell asleep.” Jeremy grins sheepishly as he sits up with a grunt, stretching his arms up over his head. He doesn’t miss the way Jean’s eyes follow him; not mistrustfully, but <em>interestedly</em>. A detached kind of interest that he has come to expect, but interest nonetheless.</p>
<p>“You did,” Jean agrees after a moment’s silence has dragged on a little too long. He clears his throat and offers the book back to Jeremy, gaze dropping to fixate on his own hands. His mark is a nice, washed out yellow, like the sunlight first thing that morning. Obviously Jeremy knows he’s happy, but still. Good to see. He heaves himself up onto his feet, tucking his towel into his bag, and proffers a hand for Jean to grab onto. And because he doesn’t expect Jean to <em>actually</em> take it, he nearly lets go when Jean <em>does</em>. Just enough brain cells remain to tell him to pull when Jean’s palm slides against his own, and then Jean is on his feet and they’re toe to toe. </p>
<p>Look, Jeremy has been remarkably restrained these few weeks. He really has. He has every intention of continuing to be restrained, because he’s a goddamn adult and he can do that for Jean’s sake. So it’s not him who leans in first. </p>
<p>It’s Jean.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and they were ROOMMATES</p>
<p>jean is reading <a href="https://short-edition.com/fr/classique/charles-baudelaire/le-desir-de-peindre">baudelaire</a> because i am gay and lazy</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <a href="https://jeanmoreaun.tumblr.com">validate me on tumble, comment make me work quick</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. i like you but that's not enough</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>things change slowly then all at once</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Ypnr33sEmg&amp;ab_channel=doddleoddle">a title</a><br/>/gestures helplessly<br/>HEAVY themes lightly touched upon; heed the warnings in the tags pls</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> &gt; we need to talk </em>
</p><p>Jeremy blinks at his phone for a few minutes. Why? He and Kevin haven’t spoken about anything but Jean since last year, if ever, and now he wants to chat?</p><p>It buzzes again.</p><p>&gt; <em> i’m worried about jean </em></p><p>Oh. That explains that one. It’s been almost a week since their last kiss, and nothing has really changed, though, so he’s not sure how that came up. Or why it didn’t come up sooner. But maybe it’s the fact that nothing has changed that makes Jeremy want to have this conversation, because he wasn’t expecting a proposal but he wouldn’t mind some acknowledgement or a shift in dynamic and maybe Kevin can shed some light on what’s going on in Jean’s head</p><p>He doesn’t text Kevin back. He calls. Kevin picks up halfway through the first ring.</p><p>“You <em>know </em>what happened to him, don’t you?”</p><p>Jeremy flushes, shamefaced, though Kevin can’t see it and he has nothing to be ashamed of. “I-- Yeah, I know. <em>You</em> told me about it.”</p><p>For a long moment, Kevin is silent. He’s just starting to hope it’s a social call when Kevin inhales harshly.</p><p>“You don’t know his history, Jeremy. Stuff like that fucks with your perception. He doesn’t know what normal relationships are.”</p><p>Jeremy’s eyebrows pinch together very faintly. One, because he doesn’t appreciate the way Kevin is talking about Jean, but two, because yes, the abuse Jean has been through has already proved that it taints his view of Jeremy, but there’s something frantic and afraid in Kevin’s voice that makes him wonder if they’re thinking about the same thing.</p><p>“I would never do anything to him,” Jeremy says, and wonders why they’re having this conversation when Kevin already knows that.</p><p>Kevin makes a frustrated noise. “I <em>know</em>. Why else would I send him to you? But you don’t know everything he did to Jean.”</p><p>“Kevin, with all due respect, no one told me,” Jeremy points out mildly. It’s not meant to sound like an attack, it’s <em>not</em> an attack, and he’s very careful to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “Jean’s an adult. I don’t want to hear it from you, and if he’s not ready to tell me then he’s not ready. I can’t force him to spill all his trauma just to know whether I’m doing the right thing, you know?”</p><p>“Ask him.”</p><p>“No!” And this time he does snap. “It’s not my business until he <em>makes</em> it my business.”</p><p>Kevin hangs up.</p><p>That’s something to smooth over later.</p><p>Jeremy throws his phone onto the bed, then rolls over to sprawl out on his back, groaning loudly as he smacks his hands against his cheeks and drags them down.</p><p>“What’s wrong with you?” Jean’s voice is cool and faintly amused. When Jeremy props himself up on his elbows, Jean is leaning against the doorframe. The freckles across his nose haven’t started to fade yet. It makes him look a little less ghoulish, less black and white. He seems softer. Could also have something to do with how relaxed he looks standing there, because he isn’t standing ramrod straight anymore. His arms are folded across his chest, one eyebrow slightly raised, and something pulls at the corner of his mouth. Maybe a smirk. </p><p>“Nothing,” Jeremy answers unconvincingly, bending one leg at the knee and planting his foot on the mattress so he can push his long-abandoned book onto the floor. “Just a shitty book.”</p><p>Jean comes to sit lightly on the edge of his own bed, and leans over to pick the book up. Jeremy rolls his head onto one shoulder so he can watch the movements. He knows he’s smiling too softly, but how can he not? That’s Jean, Jean is his soulmate and he’s comfortable enough to move around their room as if it really is <em>their</em> room and not just Jeremy’s. </p><p>“You like this book.” He puts it back down on Jeremy’s nightstand. Jeremy shrugs, beckons for Jean to come sit on his bed instead, deliberately ignoring the book. Not important, is it? What’s important is Jean. The bed shifts and dips with the added weight, rocking faintly while Jean pulls his legs up to fold underneath him, then it settles again and Jeremy smiles.</p><p>It’s strange to think how far Jean has actually come.</p><p>As if he can read Jeremy’s mind, Jean’s hand lands lightly on Jeremy’s leg, long fingers tracing absently along the ragged hem of his shorts. “Stop looking at me like that,” he says very carefully, and Jeremy doesn’t miss how his eyes flicker up to watch for any reaction.</p><p>“I’m just lookin’,” he replies, gentle and affectionate as he readjusts, pushes himself onto his hands. He settles his weight onto one hand so he can raise the other one and reach out to touch one of the freckles on the side of Jean’s crooked nose. “Should get you in the sun more often.”</p><p>Jean rolls his eyes, capturing Jeremy’s hand in his own and raising his still outstretched finger to his mouth. When he lets go again, seemingly expecting Jeremy to take his hand away, Jeremy flattens his palm very tentatively against Jean’s cheek. It looks for a second like Jean is anxious about this, like he’s waiting for a slap, and Jeremy is right on the edge of taking his hand away again when Jean relaxes and leans his cheek into the warmth of his palm.</p><p>It’s like word vomit. Jeremy feels it rise in his throat until he <em>has</em> to open his mouth because if he doesn’t it’ll spill out of his nose or something. </p><p>“I want to kiss you.”</p><p>He’s not actually sure if that’s what he <em>meant</em> to say. He had originally thought he wanted to ask Jean about what Kevin had said, but apparently his brain has other plans because Jean is looking at him with mirth dancing in his eyes, obviously a little confused.</p><p>“Then do.”</p><p>Jean still flinches when Jeremy moves again, but he stills and glares before Jeremy can even <em>think</em> of saying anything about it. So he doesn’t say anything. He just leans forward, keeping it slow, until Jean’s face blurs out of focus and their mouths meet in a soft inhale and a press of Jean’s fingers against his leg. The hand he has on Jean’s cheek slides around to the back of his neck as he scoots forward, knees bent up to his chest. The next kiss is less soft, bordering on not soft at all. Jean seems to appreciate that. Not being treated like he’s made of glass is always going to be appreciated, Jeremy thinks. Appreciated enough that Jean’s hand tightens on his thigh, still light but meaningful. Jeremy aches to press into that touch, to slide even closer and let Jean touch him properly, but that’s definitely too far. <em>Too far</em>, he reminds himself harshly, despite Jean’s insistent kisses.</p><p>Jean sits back and eyes him suspiciously. His mouth is pink and slightly swollen, the colour matching the light flush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “What,” he says flatly, and it’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room.</p><p>Jeremy has never wanted to sink into the ground and disappear more than he does when he starts speaking. <em>Speaking</em> is a fairly generous term; his mouth opens and closes a couple of times, helplessly, and then somehow he manages to stutter out the name <em>“Kevin”</em>, and Jean’s face goes from blank to stony faster than he can blink. Idiot, idiot, idiot. He’s a stupid idiot who can never just let himself relax around Jean. That’s no basis for a soulmate, he knows that, but he’s still opened his stupid mouth and now he kinda has to keep going. Explain what the fuck he’s thinking, which is no mean feat.</p><p>“It’s just that, like… Kevin called me.” The words trip over themselves, blur into one another as they rush out of his mouth. Jean blinks. Tries to parse that sentence silently in his head. Then narrows his eyes.</p><p>“What did he tell you.” The fact that it’s not really a question chills Jeremy. Jean has already come to a conclusion. And it’s a wrong conclusion, but it’s already settling into the sharp lines of his face, his downturned mouth.</p><p>“Nothing!” The look he gets tells him Jean does <em>not</em>believe that. “I swear. I wouldn’t let him tell me anything.”</p><p>“Why. You could have had the whole sob story in one go.”</p><p>Jeremy blinks in surprise. “Because it’s your shit to tell me, not his,” he says, as if it’s obvious, which it is. Maybe it’s not obvious to Jean, who’s used to his life not being his own. There’s only so much progress he can make on that front.</p><p>Jean blinks in turn. He’s still staring, but it’s gone from suspicious to downright wary now, a transition that makes Jeremy’s stomach turn. He doesn’t know what Jean might tell him, but he does know it won’t be pleasant to hear.</p><p>“Jeremy,” Jean says very calmly. Calmly, though his faintly damp palm on Jeremy’s leg betrays his nerves. He opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again. His throat clicks dryly when he swallows. </p><p>“No one told you.”</p><p>Jeremy shakes his head, mystified and a little impatient, even though he <em>knows</em> he shouldn’t be. Has no right to be impatient.</p><p>“Riko, he never did it himself.” Another pause, this one heavy with the as yet unsaid. <em>Did what?</em></p><p>“He did it to… I don’t know, make me feel smaller? make him feel bigger? To break me, anyway.”</p><p>Jeremy’s gut twists, nausea rising unbidden. He swallows it away.</p><p>“He used to, um. Bring one of the upperclassmen. Into our dorm.”</p><p>Uneasily, Jeremy wonders if he does actually know where this is leading. Hopes he doesn’t, because if it turns out he does then he might start crying.</p><p>“They –” Jean’s voice fades out and he takes a shuddering breath in, almost a gasp.</p><p>Jeremy reaches out very slowly, like he’s trying not to spook an animal. His fingers slide into Jean’s palm and he clasps his hand tightly. He doesn’t say anything.</p><p>“And I used to <em>beg</em> him to stop,” Jean continues eventually; his words are coming faster now, like he can’t stop them from tumbling out. “‘Don’t do this, please, I can be better’,” and his mouth twists cruelly, “like I did something wrong to start with.”</p><p>It’s absolutely no surprise that Jeremy’s eyes start to burn. Not to anyone. He blinks hard to stop the sensation though. This isn’t about him. Jean gets nervous when he cries.</p><p>“I stopped asking eventually. Then he stopped bringing them. Guess it was <em>boring</em>.”</p><p>For almost a minute, the silence hangs between them like vines, dimming the sunlight and wrapping tightly around their throats.</p><p>Jeremy’s head is spinning. Of all the awful, <em>evil</em> things he knows Riko Moriyama was capable of, this is one thing he really didn’t expect. It’s that invisible line in the sand that he’s always assumed everyone draws. It makes him sick to his stomach to recognise that no, not everyone draws that line.</p><p>He doesn’t realise he’s been quiet for so long until Jean starts to withdraw his hand, clearly discomfited by the stillness in the room. He clutches tighter and shakes his head, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. “Wait.”</p><p>Jean stops moving again, motionless in an instant.</p><p>Jeremy is still looking for the words he wants when his body moves without his permission. He leans over, his joints <em>immediately</em> protesting the awkwardness of their positions, to pull Jean into a tight one-armed hug. The line of Jean’s shoulders goes tight. Then it relaxes and Jean sinks into the embrace with a shaky exhale. One of Jean’s arms slithers around Jeremy’s waist, slow and tentative as if he’s afraid Jeremy will back off.</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and yeah, he’s crying. He can hear it in his voice, can feel water sliding down his cheeks and plopping onto Jean’s shoulder. “I’m <em>so</em> sorry, Jean, that should never <em>ever</em> have happened to you.”</p><p>For a second, he thinks he hears Jean’s breath hitch. Then it’s as if nothing happened. Jean’s arm curls a little tighter and he tucks his chin into Jeremy’s shoulder.</p><hr/><p>“He told you.”</p><p>“He told me.”</p><p>“And you?”</p><p>“I listened.”</p><p>“Obviously. How are you feeling about it?”</p><p>“Terrified.”</p><hr/><p>When classes start again, things are all different.</p><p>He doesn’t <em> have </em> to collect Jean from class anymore, and he hasn’t had to for months. He does it now because he wants to, and because Jean semi-smiles every time he sees Jeremy standing by the door, thumbs tucked into his backpack straps and soulmark a bright splash of colour even against whatever garish shirt he’s wearing that day.</p><p>The time they spend together isn’t so tense. They’re not tiptoeing around each other anymore. Something about that conversation, the one they haven’t had again, has made them comfortable in each other’s space in a way that they weren’t before. Now, when Jeremy moves too fast, Jean just watches him like a hawk until he settles down again. He no longer darts away from the perceived attack. Just that one small difference means the world to both of them.</p><p>Jean and Jeremy have always been kind of a two for one deal. First it was Jean’s deeply entrenched Ravens training, and Jeremy remembers without fondness the battle it took to dislodge that mindset. Then there was his terror about Jean feeling alone. Those don’t matter now, though, not when they actually <em> want </em> to be together. Neither of them is doing it out of a sense of duty when they bring coffee to the other between classes, when they hover outside the locker room to walk home together. When Jeremy says "let’s go get food, what do you want?" to Jean, Jean doesn’t defer to him. He doesn’t always make a choice, but when he doesn’t it’s because he doesn’t know or doesn’t care, not because he thinks Jeremy should be making the choices, not for fear of choosing the wrong thing.</p><p>Jean starts wearing his watch on his other wrist. Jeremy catches him staring at his mark sometimes, now that there’s nothing over it. Privately, he moons over the fact that Jean is paying the smallest scrap of attention to the universe-ordained connection between them. Privately, he wonders whether things would be the same if they weren’t soulmates. He doesn’t think so. He thinks half the reason Jean stepped so far out of his comfort zone in the first place was because they were soulmates. If it hadn’t been for that, he doesn’t know if they’d be where they are now. He’s <em> very </em>fucking glad they made it here.</p><p>The mornings of waking up to an empty room, the bed opposite cold and Jean long since gone to court, have all but come to an end. Jean sleeps longer now, too. He doesn’t sleep the whole night, he still doesn’t sleep eight hours, and he occasionally wakes in the middle of the night with a cry or a gasp. But he gradually starts letting Jeremy perch on the edge of his bed to soothe him; when that eventually transitions to Jeremy sliding in next to him, wrapping an arm around him to calm the shaking and murmuring quiet reassurances into his ear, it’s a logical step. Sometimes he pushes Jeremy away and refuses the touch. Sometimes he asks Jeremy to join him <em> before </em> Jeremy asks for permission. But more often than not, Jeremy will whisper <em> can I, Jean? </em> and Jean will nod, lift up the corner of his blanket, let Jeremy wrap his smaller frame around him like he can curl around Jean’s long limbs and spiky elbows and soften the edges of his trauma.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>we're nearly DONE<br/>the good news: the next chapter will be the last<br/>the better news: it's half written already hee hee</p><p>as always, <a href="https://jeanmoreaun.tumblr.com/">comments make me happy</a></p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>as always, i do not take constructive criticism without crying xx</p><p>i also don't take compliments without crying but i will at least accept them and cry privately</p><p>if you WANT to scream at me on tumblr you can find me at <a href="https://jeanmoreaun.tumblr.com"> jeanmoreaun</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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